Yeah, was feeling a little low when I wrote this, but dont let that stop you from bashing it. Please; trounce this. it's written in lieu of the tradition set by by "odd jottings." just a little experiment.

As if going to community college for two years wasn't hard enough, i decided to add insult to injury by taking a summer class. It's lonely here. I don't know anyone and, of course, I don't try to. There's more drinking, smoking, sexing, drugs here, but it seems like less because everyone keeps it to themselves. You still know it goes on, though; you can smell it. Like the smell outside a crematorium.

I often sit, after class, alone in the table-strewn basement of the Humanities Building, and think. Gas is expensive, so I don't drive around. Class is early, so I don't eat lunch. I don't go home, because to do so, I'd have to go home.

I sit here instead, pen in hand and vending-machine-hum in ear. I'm not completely isolated, mind you. Someone sits down here, too.

A woman. A grandma, probably. Eats her too-early lunch. Head in hand. Stares at an avocado green formican tabletop. Nothing else. No one around.

Watching her has become somewhat of a hobby for me. Not a sick, twisted obsession, but something to do to pass the time. It's a little wierd. I find a sort of sanctuary down here with her. At 12:50 each day, she's here. Waiting. Thinking. Lamenting. Always. The only constant and expectable thing i have is her presence. This I find both comforting and depressing.

She never notices me. Which is good. I'm not good at talking to strangers. Old habit, I guess. I'm not one to go up to someone and say, "What's your name? What's your sign? Why do you sit here with me?"

Break the ice.

Instead, I do what I do best: I make shit up.

Tiny stories develop in my head each lunch we spend together. She bites a balogna sandwich, I swig my apathy. Sips her tea. I draw conclusions.

Assumptions.

Lies.

We sit and sit and I decide for her why she's so sad.

Because everyone shes ever known is dead.

Because the grandkids don't write.

Because because everything is too fast.

Because she's just waiting to leap into that great Vast.

Because it's something to do.

Because watching her doesn't hurt as much as watching myself.