The College Psychosis...

The circa 1950's Disneyland jazz croons overhead while my fellow diners do their best to channel their focus into the books and papers in front of them. Behind me Africa, China and the Middle East are at war: four students in the middle of a fierce competition of Texas Hold'em shouting obscenities and reminding me of the song - "War! Uh! Yeah! What is it good for? Absolutely nothing!" (Unless money is involved?) And I sit alone, munching on my "carne asada" burrito and contemplating this situation that is as much a part of my life as it is every other glazed-over, major-specific education aficionado at a crossroads.

And we ARE at a crossroads. We always are. Coffee or tea? Chicken or fish (or in my case, artificial carne asada)? Do I read over my veritable fiesta of a meal or do I write? Do I mock the poker game or secretly wish I was a part of the group? Or both?

Two sorority girls walk outside, below me, and as I watch them I recall my own horrific stint as a pledge. Boy, what a wrong turn that was. On no account am I a pessimist, but the memory of screaming, giggling mobs on 24-hour Starbucks-induced highs hell-bent on taking all my money is not a fond one.

My heart is beating too quickly now. I take a deep breath, partly to slow it and partly because I find myself forgetting to breathe these days. I look forward to the drive home at the end of the day, when I can lose myself in the taillights of the cars in front of me. They gleam red, not like scary eyes but like helpful stop signs: they remind me to stop and look around, to make sure that I'm not leaving anything behind (or is it me that's getting left behind?).

I stand from my table in the dining hall and push in my chair (what a good little citizen I am!) before I walk out the door. No one notices that I am leaving, but then again, this is not the place to make friends; the library is where I make my friends. This place is the in-between place, where you either stop in before going somewhere or come back to after being out. This is the place of limbo and fake burritos.

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Again, a reminiscence of the 50's Disneyland jazz and again I sit alone, this time opting for the dining hall's delectable concoction of Wonderbread and turkey. It sticks to the roof of my mouth, and I try vainly to peel it off with my tongue. There is a man that sits one table away, and he is watching me and laughing. I laugh too, but on the inside, because I see he has the fake burrito in front of him. Ha ha, I think. Joke's on you.

Behind me one of the Sorority Sisters From Hell answers a phone call with a peppy hello. "Well, hello! It's Byrdie. No, B-Y-R-D-I-E. Yeah. Do you think she'll notice the pun of the invitation, 'The byrdie is in a new nest'?"

Gee, I dunno. Does a pun lose its punni-ness when you have to explain it to a dumbass? If your name is as uncommon as Byrdie and you don't get the puns, should you really be in college? I'm thinking that's a big fat negative.

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I sit quietly, shrinking myself as closely into my Triscuit-sized desk as possible; around me is the angry buzzing noise of 100 other students. I look around and am reminded of yesterday’s lesson; according to the professor, we are all drawn to stick to each other, and it is only gravity that keeps us separated. I let out a silent prayer that Isaac Newton does not fail me now, as the person to my immediate right seems to have a contagious skin condition and the person to my left drips sweat like an overweight football player on a summer afternoon in the bayou.

In walks the professor, a crotchety and overworked genius with a venomous tongue for stupid questions and a penchant for making us squirm in our teeny tiny seats. He starts a philosophical discussion with a girl in the front row about the point of our existence; she annoys him by saying that we can all make a difference if only we try, and he calls her a love-starved hippie. She is on the verge of tears, and the professor is fueled by her agony and his newly invigorated Napoleon complex.

I stopped by the library earlier today to tell my friends about the poker game. I imagine that they’re lonely like me sometimes; that’s why we all stick together so well. A man walks by our aisle, shooting a funny glance our way. We’re being as quiet as possible, but there’s still that unwritten rule of no talking in the library. I told them how badly I wanted to play, but they assured me it would be no use; I could never fit in with a bunch of dirty-mouthed badasses single-mindedly taking my money. Hell, put some eyeshadow on them and it’d be the sorority all over again.

The professor is expounding on existence, fueled by the now red-faced girl who probably wishes she had chosen the back of the room today. He says that contrary to her beliefs, most of us won’t make a mark on the world at all. “Most of you”, he says, “will merely infect the people in your immediate area. Pretty sad, isn’t it?” I wonder if he meant to say “affect” or is just being especially pessimistic. Is that what we do? Simply infect those around us with our own diseased habits? Besides the obvious skin condition victim next to me, I’m left to wonder: is our survival based on hippie philosophy, or simply a symbiotic relationship of the host body and the virus?