But I am here to tell you, Internet, that I have witnessed the weirdest and most disgusting personal habit ever. In public. And I am so disgusted that I feel compelled to share this with someone, anyone – even if I also feel compelled to vomit while I type this.

I just sat through an hour long class, and the guy in front of me was clicking his ballpoint pen. Click. Click-click. Click. Click-click. Over, and over, and over. Naturally, being as high-strung as I am, I went from zero to annoyed after the second click. I shifted around to see what was with all the clicking when I saw him using the tip of his ballpoint pen to scratch the top of his head, then click it open to clean it off (apparently he has some sort of head debris?) and then do it again…and again. For the entire hour.

I am speechless with disgust.

If this is something he learned from his mother, somebody better be calling Social Services pronto.

What’s the weirdest thing you’ve ever seen anyone do in public?

“Don’t forget, your papers are due on Tuesday the 26th.”

“What sort of criteria will you be using to grade our papers?”

“Very specific criteria.”

“Are you going to tell us what it is?”

“Yes.”

“Will you be telling us soon?”

“No.”

You know the people. You do. If only they gave off some sort of weird vibration, a strange sort of shimmery light that would delineate them from normal humans. Unfortunately, you only find out that they are carriers of the disease AFTER they tell you about that one time when they just, like, couldn’t get the poop all the way out!

I don’t know about you, but I just, like, couldn’t care less about that. Or about the spider bite, or even, believe it or not, the neck thing. I don’t care. I am the opposite of a gossip – if you have information that does not pertain to me, please keep it to yourself, because it’s just bad manners not to, and if there’s anything I hate more than bad manners it’s getting sick, and I’m afraid it might be contagious. It’s just not socially acceptable to reveal so much to perfect strangers, especially not in a classroom when people are trapped and forced to sit next to you. Maybe on a bus when you’re drunk, but even then, I would feign a heart attack rather than risk catching the TMI disease.

If only there was a cure. The best defense mechanism I have is complete ignorance. I always feel that, if I pretend not to notice the TMI carrier, don’t breathe, and don’t make eye contact, maybe I can avoid it. But it’s not just me, because TMI carriers are indiscriminate and they will overshare to anyone. Maybe one day there will be an uprising in class and she’ll be killed. Sadly, sometimes things like that have to happen, for the good of the group.

How very Machiavellian.

Actually, it’s true. They totally do that. And now, I’m screwed.

Okay, not exactly screwed, I exaggerate (who me? Never!) but only a little. My Comparitive Politics professor is from Turkey, but lived in Finland for awhile too, and now teaches in the states. She has the wonkiest accent I’ve ever heard, and it cracks me up, so much so that I listen to how she says words, not the actual words that she says, which then explains why all I’ve learned so far is that Britain is, in fact, a democracy, despite their insistence on keeping royals with bad hats.

My professor really loves direct object articles (‘a’ or ‘the’ for the grammatically ungeeky) and she is mad about plurals, which is always fun. She also ocassionally spells like she pronounces things, which makes for an interesting activity as well. Bored by the lecture? That’s OK, just use the spare time to decipher the power point from Turkish accented English, into regular English. On the first day of school, she told us that she frequently checks her e-mails and that we shouldn’t bring in foods or drinks, but if we wanted to bring in the water bottles to drink the waters, that would be OK.

I’m pretty excited to go to class tomorrow actually, because when we last left off, we were talking about the Quinn of England, and her relationship with the Margaret Thatchers.

I have been reading my old journals (my mom told me to clean my room, and in my house, you do what she says!) and the pain and anger that oozes out of those pages is enough to remind me that what I remember feeling is not nearly as cheery as I would like to think. Why do some of us hold on to that anger and let it infect our lives? Why do others of us mold our memories to reflect what we later processed, not what we actually remember feeling?

I remember the anger of not getting the lead in the musical my senior year, the dances where I didn’t have a date, my senior prom and having to pick between two dates, the day in choir where nobody would talk to me… and on and on. Putting aside how small and trivial all of these moments are, they were very real to me at the time. And reading my old journals doesn’t help either. The obvious pain of that writing only fans the flames of anger that have been lying dormant for a long time.

But these are not the memories I think about. I’m wondering when and how the old, bad, painful memories got sanded down and covered with the “oh I loved high school!” varnish? I feel like I’m not being true to myself if I can only remember the good times. It’s like saying the embarassing, horrible moments weren’t valid and they are best forgotten. When in reality, I believe that the moments when I felt the most alone are the moments when I felt, more resolutely than ever, the conviction to hold steadfastly to myself. Reading those journals last night made me feel like I had betrayed myself somehow, or at least the memory of my old self. I wondered if I had shaken the teenage girl angst for good.

But then I went back to high school today, to visit some old teachers. Just walking down the halls made me nervous. I felt like all the old awkwardness would rub off on me as soon as I walked in. I wish I could go back to myself at that age and know that one day it would be okay. The heartache wouldn’t be over, and the drama would still occur, but in clinging to myself during those years, I made it okay to be myself later. I wish my tortured 15-year old soul could have known that.

I also wish I would have known that, even at age 21, going back to high school is not a good idea. Because as soon as I walked through the doors, I was afraid that, at any second, I would be 15 again, wearing overalls and braces, just hoping to make it through the day.

“But it was an alloy!” (insert ridiculous laughing and snorting *here*)

Engineers have jokes about alloys, music kids have jokes about fermatas. I’m just waiting for a geeky joke about William Randolph Hearst to come my way.

Although I do know a really funny one about Final Cut Pro…

As a public service to the rest of the class, I feel compelled to tell you what you probably already know: you talk waaay too much. I know, it’s a political science class, and everyone has their two cents to put in. But thus far, you’ve contributed at least $75.86, and I’m afraid that is well over the two-cent comment limit. And since we’re a political science class, and not a political campaign, you can keep your money – and your mouth – to yourself.

Sometimes I wonder if you were ignored as a child, or even worse, overly encouraged. Every word you say is not always valid or interesting, your running commentary and sound effects actually don’t enhance my education, and no, you are not a unique and special snowflake. Deal with it.

And the way you begin every comment with “Ummm… well, I’ve been thinking about it, and…” also really makes me wonder. Have you been thinking about it? Really? Do you think of all that in the five seconds between the last time you opened up your mouth and now, the moment of time in which you are again talking?

I know this won’t prevent any more outbursts like today’s (in which you called everyone in the class “fucking idiots” just in case you forgot) nor will it cause you to ever verbally censor yourself in any way, which is a shame because you need a verbal censor like I need a haircut – badly! But this might be my release from prison when my defense attorney uses this post as Evidence A. “She did warn him, your Honor.”

Yes, she did.

Sincerely,
One whose mafia connections run deep

“Human beings like to rescue cute, fuzzy little things – like baby pandas. They’re very charismatic, the pandas.”

I quote directly from one of my professors. This is also the same man who refers to Noam Chomsky as “The Noamster.”

Make of it what you will.

Places like this make me feel so college. The free flow of ideas, the mixing of lifestyles (and hairstyles) remind me that I’m human – that we all are. And even if my inner Bohemian girl is supressed by my outward sorority girl, all it takes is some good tea and the perfect atmosphere to let her come out, at least long enough to (briefly) consider dreadlocks.