life

Creepy.

I try to run as often as I can. Sometimes that may be only once or twice a week, perhaps every other week; still, though, I try my darnedest, and I suppose that’s what counts.

I went on a run today. Three miles. Average. Felt pretty good, healthy.

It’s been getting to be damn hard, though, if I’m gonna be honest. The will of wanting to run–well, it has its ups and downs; most of the time, I am forcing myself to do the deed. Makes it sound like an illegal act, or something, when, in all actuality, running helps keep me sane.

I saw a dead rabbit while running. Its fur was matted with water splashed up from passing cars; and it just lay there, eyes empty, tiny mouth agape. Looked like a ruined washcloth with shriveled paws.

This rabbit was on the side of the road, an empty, empty road. Must have been fresh, since the birds hadn’t taken their pickings yet; but I gotta say, I–I didn’t like seeing the emptiness in its eyes.

It wasn’t petrified–how could it be scared for its life when it was likely taken within a few seconds? It was…just…dead. That’s one of the scariest things to see in life, you know, something that’s had its life snipped at the seam–in an instant.

Blammo. And nothing left.

Didn’t help there were crows watching me from roofs, groups of them circling high in the sky. I remember one large crow, its head appearing as if shrouded beneath this black shawl, talons scratching at the fence post on which it roosted. It stared at me as I passed the dead rabbit. Those beady button eyes stared directly at me; and the rest of the crow made no movement at all. The thing sat hunched there, brooding; hell, maybe it was waiting to swoop across and gut its newfound meal.

I don’t know.

But I didn’t like it.

Birds were everywhere when I walked back home, a flock in one tree, three or more crows perched on roof after roof; and, looking around, all I could see were the birds with their noise and their silence.

Felt like Christmastime, all the lights out upon the houses, twinkling, buzzing; and not a footprint to be seen on snowy streets, nor a fracture of firelight from within one of the houses encroached in shadow, only the winged predators dragging their talons across roof tiles.

I would say it was reminiscent of Hitchcock, but what I can gather mentally from that experience is–

Is that it felt creepy.

Think daily,

A Southpaw

The Squirrel

I watched a squirrel for close to an hour the other night.

Of course, I should have been intensely studying for the math test that night, but this squirrel, it was more than a squirrel. It was…well, it’s hard to completely explain in a short number of words.

I’ll start from the beginning–

I was sitting at a table on the college campus, math book and notebook cracked open in front of me. Review mode was engaged–let’s put it that way; and as far as studying for math goes, I thought I was doing pretty well.

Now, to step away from the math–we already know I’m terrible at the concept–I want to introduce all of you to the man of the hour: the squirrel that hopped down from a tree to the right of me.

It’s not as if this was a mutant squirrel; no, it was your average, everyday, acorn-loving creature, nothing much to it. I could tell it had come out to scavenge when I first saw it–why, you ask? it was hunting beneath the various tables for scraps of wasted food.

The squirrel got lucky a few times, found two French fries, and, I think, a potato chip.

I wasn’t too interested in what it was eating, though.

Sidetrack a moment from the squirrel.

Picture: a set piece on which all these types of people are walking and acting out their lives, their personalities, within the restricted boundaries of whatever influence the public opinion has over our confidence.

One girl, two tables away from me, was chatting on a phone while studying for, possibly, the same math test. Truth be told, I didn’t check out that specific detail.

Another guy showed up during the middle of the squirrel’s charade–and take note, this guy is important in this story, ‘kay?–chomping down on a pink coated chocolate candy and pacing the ground before a bundle of spiring trees.

Dozens more people passed and went, walked and skated, talked and reflected. Classes were let out, and those students came through this set piece, only to go onto another one within an instant.

Why are they crucial? Why did I observe them so keenly?

Not a single one of these people acknowledged the squirrel’s existence.

The squirrel here is crawling over and under the intricacies of these tables, grabbing at crumbs; and, to them, it’s a ghost. The French fries disappeared, sure, but to where they went, no one would be the wiser.

I had my eyes fixed on the squirrel, and with each group that entered the set piece, I watched to see if any would take note of it. Surprisingly, as I said, it was as if the whole scene was happening underground, no lights, no sense of what or why was going on in the surroundings.

I had to laugh; of course, who wouldn’t in a situation like that.

Every time I kept thinking someone would point out the squirrel and admire its cuteness, my intuition was proven wrong. Sometimes it is–that I don’t deny; it’s pointless to assume I would have predicted any of the reactions.

Then I wondered…

Why was I so enamored with the squirrel in the first place?

The answer came to me when I saw the squirrel, fresh off its second fry, venture carefully towards the girl chatting on her phone. It would take a few bounds, stop, sniff the ground, and tread some more ground, its tail twitching with each movement.

It reached the girl…eventually–and what did the girl do but stare at it and stamp her feet.

The squirrel retreated, scared, unsure, wrecked in all of its emotional faculties. Had it been looking for food? A companion? Someone to give it a good petting? Dunno. All I know is that it ran from her.

At this point, we return to the guy eating his chocolate candy.

During the periods when I was unable to clearly observe the squirrel, my focus had been spent studying this dude. By all accounts, he looked simple enough, just enjoying his chocolate; he was the guy you’d pass on the street without a second thought–that is…until the group of girls walked by him.

A glance was all it took, and I recognized the panic in his eyes as they tracked the girls, this trio glued to their phones, disregarding the guy without a second thought.

He lowered the chocolate candy, moved to speak; although, by then, they were gone.

I winced.

The guy walked a few more minutes, lost to his thoughts–

During this painful moment, another class stormed down from the hill, jabbering, hopping on their skateboards and scooters; again, not one of them noticed the squirrel that, cowering beneath a table, dropped to its paws and hightailed it to the bundle of spiring trees near the recently heartbroken guy.

And guess what?

As the guy pondered and paced, he stopped a second, looked up; and he saw the squirrel, just stood there in an awe of sorts as the squirrel clamped itself to one of the trees and crawled up the trunk.

What else could I do than be mesmerized? Another of these bystanders had seen the invisible critter; now, it was as real as anything else in that small dining square.

Why do I tell you this story? Why do I waste your time with a little human observation?

To me, that most people did not see this squirrel says something about the state of humanity–of existing.

I forgot to mention earlier, but the whole time I was studying the squirrel, none of those people took a notice of me, either. Like the squirrel, I became a ghost for a short amount of time, free to wander, to act, to do, as I wished.

Maybe it’s ’cause I was silent. Maybe it’s ’cause I simply watched.

Maybe it’s ’cause, for one reason or another, I just didn’t blend.

I put faith in this assumption because of the one other person who saw the squirrel:

The guy who had recently been rejected by the trio of girls.

The both of us were not, by any stretch of the matter, different, per say; however, what if, since the majority of this small society had not stopped to acknowledge our being there, we were then able to acknowledge the presence of the squirrel?

Perhaps existing is more than simply being seen by others. Perhaps, as long as you yourself are confident in what you stand for, in what you think, or believe; then, perhaps, existing is a matter of whether or not you want to stand tall, or sit complacently with the masses.

Perhaps, at this moment, there’s a squirrel scampering at your feet for food, and you haven’t yet noticed it.

Think daily,

A Southpaw

Yeah, Uh, I Wash Dishes Now, Guys…

You guys remember how I had a job, a legit working job? Yeah, well, that went the way of the blue suede shoe–and, if I’m gonna be honest, I am a little glad about it. The atmosphere was startlingly negative; that and the safety stuff wasn’t as strictly followed as it should have been…

But, hey, that’s what we got quitting for, right?

Wrong?

Maybe?

Either way, I’m a dishwasher now. At this little joint called Great Wolf Lodge, maybe you’ve heard of it. It’s pretty much all across the entire United States at this point, and, the way they’re headed with this place–we might have near total world domination on our hands, folks.

I have no say in how that domination crap goes, though, since I just hide out in the back of the separate kitchens and shovel dirty dishes into these monster washers, some sorta industrial machines. The load of work is easy, save for the times when everyone in the lodge decides to eat at the exact same time, as well as Closing Time.

Yes, my friends, I have to spray out the giant monster washer at the end of the night. Trust me, there are no redeeming qualities about that; except, you know–ah, pooh, I’m at a blank.

When I finish I’m covered in this disgusting sludge of onions and carrots and crusty pizza sauce, something like this:

Yep. Not a pretty sight, or picture.

A perk: I get to nab leftover food sometimes. The cooks could leave out a whole tray of chocolate-caramel brownies, and us dishwashers and servers will pick off whatever we can before the supervisors come running into the kitchen.

Try hiding a mouthful of chocolate and licking crumbs off your lips when talking to one of those guys, huh? I haven’t actually had such an experience, but I can imagine it is no fun–seriously.

We also have this squeegee blade in the big kitchen that we use to slide water and gunk off the counters. Pressing it to the metal and gliding it this way and that reminds me of washing windows, and then I laugh–and the servers and cooks give me funny looks. Hey, that rhymed!

A good thing is, is I can see myself continuing in this job for the next two years, at least. Who ever knows what the future holds, sure, but I have a feeling about this place. I got them good vibrations. You get what I’m sayin, homes?

Just nod your head and smile. It’s fine if you don’t.

Kidding, man, you are so screwed.

Think daily,

A Southpaw

Oh, The Types of People You Meet In College…

I like to think of myself as a pretty intelligent dude. I graduated high school, for one; also, I ponder the deeper questions of the universe constantly, such classics as, “How long to cook macaroni and cheese?” and “Do dogs really love us, or are they more affectionate towards the food we give them?”

I’m on the average level of smart is what I would call it. Trust me, there’s no secret Will Hunting/Steve Jobs conspiracy going on behind closed doors. What I know is what I know, eh?

You getting me, folks?

Segway into college, and here we are at UCCS, one of the many centers of knowledge dotted across this gigantic blueberry of ours. Classes are long, packed; sometimes it doesn’t seem as if they have an ending–but, they do, trust me.

Now, this isn’t a complaint about college classes. Hear me out, I genuinely love this unstoppable access to knowledge that you can only find in a college campus; however, it’s some of the people in these college classes that have me confused, even lost, as to their motivations.

I know what you’re gonna say.

Well, why don’t you focus on your own life, not theirs?

Trust me. I am top priority…not in a creepy, arrogant way, but in–ah, forget it.

There are these types of people in my classes–I should say, specific types of people–that I observe when, yes, I should instead be listening to the lecture. You have to understand, though. I got a compulsion to watch people, to figure them out, and not in a stalkerish way, either.

For example, in my Politics class, there’s one dude who talks like he just walked out of a Brain Factory. One of his choice phrases is “pragmatically speaking;” and when he said it in class, I was thinking, well, hell, I forget what that means, but o-kay.

We are training to be scholars, after all, so give a guy a cheer, right?

Then there’s the people who, when an assignment is due–or, when we had to have read something–raise their heads and stare off into the abyss I like to call, The Oh-No-I-Just-Screwed-Up-Big-Time Abyss.

Four pages of math questions? Nope.

A diorama of the Crossing of the Delaware? No–and, for that matter, who’s doing dioramas in college?

I admit, I am in the Oh-No Abyss sometimes…more frequently in the past few days, but, that’s another story for another time.

Lastly, there is the smallest minority of college classes, the ones…who say nothing at all, have no expression, and take their notes like the dutiful students they are.

And I’m pulling your leg, in truth, because we’re all like that, at least I think so.

I have been known to sit and stare and note take–I mean, take notes; of course, all of what I just wrote when I am not drifting off into the treacherous bowels of my own mind and humming, to myself, the songs I heard on the radio that morning.

What’s a few Katy Perry ditties gonna hurt, huh?

The rest of the class is humming Katy Perry–I just know it; and if they say no, then they are all dirty liars.

And, oh, look at that, I created two new types of people in college classes–

Mind-Hogs and Pop Star Wannabes.

Ya do whatcha gotta do, man, ya do whatcha gotta do…

Think daily,

A Southpaw

The Horrible Writing Experience Of Third Grade

If any of you are writers, or people looking to be writers, have any of you, after a certain amount of time, heard that old phrase: “Gee, you should really think of joining a writing group!”

Do you any of you barf a little in your mouth? ‘Cause I do.

I see writing as a personal game, like playing a match of Uno by yourself–and, yes, I realize that analogy sucks, but it’s the best I could come up with, so there. You sit at a desk, or lie on a couch, all alone while doing the craft, anyways, so why would you need other sitting experts to feed you their opinions on the matter?

Now, before you accuse me of having not attended any writing groups whatsoever, let me tell ya, I have. I will also tell you, it was not that fun; granted, my first experience of being in a group was when I was a third grader in Montana, but…

Yeah. Montana. The Big Sky State; although, personally, I don’t see the difference between their sky and the rest of the friggin’ sky. I don’t know, maybe the gravity’s a little off there. I was eight years old, for crying out loud; I wasn’t that observant.

I attended an elementary school right beside my mom’s resident home…where she worked–she didn’t live there. It was a nice school where I made a lot of friends; however, when I wasn’t making great friends, I was reading books and writing short, short stories. These things were a page and a half, two, if I had a brilliant idea.

‘Course, I got into trouble more than a few times with the teacher, since, apparently, I should have been working on the assignment instead of writing about this kid named Jim, who traveled to the Bermuda Triangle and blew it up.

Yeah, good going there, Jim.

My friends, on the other hand, thought the stories were spectacular, and the ones sitting at the same table as me asked if they could help write the stories. Yes, folks, I had my first collaborative writing session in the third grade. Cheers for me.

The months passed while we were writing these stories, and get this: a total of three students, including me, got to be working on stories together. Jim gained the friends, John, and Jean, I think, because, I guess, my friends felt they had to name their characters “J” somethings, too. Again, I don’t why. I was eight years old, people.

In November, maybe, our teacher called our class together to inform us of a visiting author to the school. This author was going to teach a writing course for an hour, and he was going to do it for a select amount of students from each class.

In our class’s case, it was three students.

So, the big day arrived, at last. The author was scheduled for that afternoon, and our teacher had yet to choose her special students.

The tension was thick as she paced around the classroom, hand on her chin in that I’m-an-adult-and-I’m-thinking manner, and she ended up picking me–I was genuinely surprised at this–a couple of my collaborative writing friends, and another guy who occasionally wrote sci-fi detective stories, which, I believe, he only wrote to get picked.

I remember, after I was chosen, this one rude girl in the class said, “He’s only getting to go because he writes stories.”

Well, I mean, duh. Did you think I was gonna get picked if I had spent the year working on a bust of the Wright Brothers?

When the time came, the lot of us filed down to the library to see this writer dude; by the way, he was a children’s author–and, so, on getting there, I sat down in the furthest seat from this humming projector screen and watched the other kids find their seats and pull out their handy-dandy notebooks.

Then the writer dude entered.

I can’t remember all of it too clearly, but I know he had a satchel of papers and more papers that he set on the desk; and then he told us how excited he was to see us–yeah, sure, dude, excited to see a bunch of spaced-out third graders.

I was prepared to learn the most helpful writing tips in the world, had my pen ready and everything; and the first thing this writer dude did was to tell us to draw a picture. He didn’t say a word about punctuation, or showing and not telling, but a picture.

I sketched my favorite character at the time, a little dude with a Jack-O-Lantern for a head who I called Super Mask, then I prepared myself, again, for writing advice.

Once more, Writer Dude told us to draw a picture.

For christ’s sake, man, I hadn’t come down there to sketch comic book characters! I had come down there to learn how to perfect my craft–and these funny drawings were not cutting it.

The course ended, thankfully, and I left with two thoughts: one, how pointless that had been; and, two, I wondered what kind of stories were coming out of the girl who had sketched mutated unicorns.

There’s an idea.

So, that one writing course in third grade, in a way, formed my future perceptions of groups, in general. You can call that generalizing, or just plain stupid; but I like to call it thinking smart.

And here at Thoughts of A Southpaw, that is what we do.

Think daily,

A Southpaw

I Have Seen The College Experience, And It Is…

Whoa, early bird much? I don’t think I’ve had a post this ahead of schedule in a few months, but you know what they say: the early bird gets the finger–uh, I mean the worm. Where on Earth did that come from?

Ahem.

College. A place. A person. A thing. A nou–

Let’s talk about college, shall we? All of us gathered around this digital fireplace? Good. And each of you have marshmallows, with some chocolate? Even better. Eat them now, or forever hold your appetite, ’cause, well, they’re digital.

I’ve been jabbering about college for a while, I realize. Most of you, methinks, are beginning to tire of this senseless insight into the life of one man–ooh, I like the sound of that–struggling to fight his way through the scourges of college education.

On this, you are in the right; or the left, if you’re blind in one eye for whatever random reason.

Why should I continue to assault all you fine people with College 101, when it is obviously the time to be talking of politics and space and how city dumps are hazardous to the environment?

Put simply, those topics bore me, and if a topic bores me, then I will not talk about it.

No, I’d rather converse about the ethics of dish sponges and question the amount of times a shark brushes its teeth per week. You know, common stuff; trust me, you’re not gonna find much deep thoughts here, folks.

For the moment, though, I’m covering college, because, why not?

Ah, but it is such an experience, such a realization, watching these bunches of people file past me on the sidewalk, never seeing me because their phones are literally snatching their faces and ramming them against their screens. That Phone Assault is a real problem, people; be sure to keep an eye out for rogue Androids.

I talk to some people, the rare few that can hear me and don’t stare directly at the ground as they walk from class to class. The dialogue is sparse, yet meaningful. Yes, an example of one of my more intellectually provoking ice-breakers is, “Hey, what’s your major, dude?”

They respond in a manner I liken to the awakening of the mind itself.

“Oh, Science,” or, “Eh, Engineering.”

Truly works of art in the realm of conversation that, as humans, we so rarely tread. Brilliance in a bottle, a favorite phrase of mine. Just picture a rubber ducky, imagine within there is a hidden midget genius, and only then will you wholly understand the phrase.

Yes, college is the centerpiece of the Outside World, or, The Lion’s Den. At every turn await strangers, lurking in the dark corners, lunging at you to ask where they might find the cafeteria…

I don’t know, man. I-I swear.

Then why, oh, why, is there a barbecue stain on your shirt sleeve?

I plead the Fifth!

[Evil Laughter track]

Oh, God! NOOOOOOO!

Whoah, guys, I think your marshmallows just shat themselves. Great! Now there’s chocolate cream all over the carpet! Clean it up, willya? I gotta finish this post here, see?

I feel the need to be formal, to write academically appropriate sentences, but, eh, screw it.

College–Woot-Woot.

That had less of a reaction than I thought it would.

Think daily,

A Southpaw

Warning: Adult In Training

This is no joke, folks.

Close your blinds. Shut your windows–both of those reversed, or–ah, screw it.

Tune into the police blotters to hear the news, the deadly truths…

It’s like a horror movie, but real, so…not actually a movie; but never mind the specifics.

Oh no, he’s here! The fearful thing that haunts the cities and the streets–and the vending machines for reasons of constant hunger. It’s–ah, God, but it can’t be; it is the new adult in training!

The horror. Oh, the horror. Screams. More screams.

He has no number–

But all the adults have numbers! Look at Mr. 123, he–oh my God, Mr. 123 is gone and–uggghh!

He has no identifiable tag, or label–

This is getting to sound a lot like a package of meat…

What shall we do against so mysterious, so vast, a threat as this creature?

Silver bullets? Damn. He’s not a werewolf; and yet, he’s always dreamt of being one.

A cross. No. Not a vampire, either.

Books? But he loves them!

Bring out the secret weapon. Give him the ol’ College Try.

Look, all, and gaze in dumbfounded wonder as he struggles to surmount its obstacles. We send test after test in his path; still, he manages to clamber his way out onto the top. It’s incredible. It’s astounding. It’s really pissing the hell out of me…

Seriously, guys, can nothing we own stop this Teenage Frankenstein? He–He doesn’t even have pimples to pop, not that I would want to. Just look at his face: lost in the caverns of his own mind. He is completely distracted, you idiots!

Oh, well, forget it now. The adult’s already moved on, already gone to find another problem to cause him unbearable stress. Why anyone would choose to do so is beyond me, but, let the freakishly large adult child do his thing, I suppose.

But if he starts whining for a binkie, set off the nukes.

Think daily,

A Southpaw

P.S: Love Calvin and Hobbes

Carpe Diem.

Holy Crap, no one actually told me college was going to be this difficult. I just finished my first week, and already I am stressed out of my young, adult mind–wait, young and adult?

First off, boy, some of these classes are friggin’ long–I mean, five hours long. That’s a long time. A good thing, though, is that some of the professors can lecture so fluently time goes by in a flash. They can start on a conversation at the beginning of class and finish the class on the same topic.

Okay, maybe not the exact same topic…

I’ve made some friends already, which is a constant struggle in college; in that respect, lunch has gone smooth every day since then–but I’ve also been taking some time to venture out into the campus and reflect on life.

You know what I figured out?

All of the freshman entering college are in my position. I’m not talking the exact same position; however, each person is lost and isolated and confused as to what the hell they’re supposed to do after that one class.

We are lost souls, swimming in a fishbowl of our own loneliness. It’s sad when I put it that way, and maybe it’s sad for me to think of it as such; but when you gotta be honest, you gotta be honest.

I’m not avidly searching for people to hang out with–well, maybe a little–because I sorta got a bunch of friends from high school with whom I can connect. It’s just…it’s hard, you know? Stepping into the shoes of an adult for the first time… There’s a need for responsibility, a need to act, everywhere I turn; add on top of that a load of homework and studying and social pressures–it makes me feel like a ticking time bomb.

But, then, I remember. I remember how fortunate I am to have the opportunity to receive this great gift that is education. I tell myself to buck up, get my shit together. Life is hard, but it’s only gonna get harder; and if I have dreams to follow, then I had better go chasing after them as if it was the last day on Earth.

Carpe Diem. Translated from Latin, it means Seize the Day. That’s my catchphrase this year.

Armed with the ambition of wanting to be a writer, to tell stories that change how stories themselves work, I’m going to recite those two words every morning of every day.

When I wake up, the moment I open my eyes–Carpe Diem.

When I sit down to write on a story–Carpe Diem.

As I climb the staircase of knowledge at a university where hard work, and perseverance, will make me capable of achieving my dreams, my goals in life–Carpe Diem.

It’s the truth as I believe it.

It’s the truth as I say it.

It is whatever I want it to mean, and more.

Why?

I have the ability to do so. I have the freedom to do so.

I’m not just going to sit here and write all of this crap down and do nothing with it.

No, these words are to be acted upon, as all words should be; and they will hold within themselves the truths that I have set forth in this blog post. This is a declaration of action, not inaction. It is a route by which I will travel these long and troublesome years, because I know I can do whatever I want to do–whatever I dream I can do, if I only suffer through the pain and come back out on top at the end.

Life is fair to us if we strive to make it so; otherwise, the chances can be less to none.

I say: Make Your Life, The Life of All Lives.

And never regret it.

Think daily,

A Southpaw

Disco Needs A Revival, People!

You guys know how Grunge has been making a comeback in recent years? The flannel is popping up in stores; kids are wearing more and more smiley face Nirvana t-shirts; and bands like Pearl Jam and Bush are gaining dozens of fans by the minute.

For me, Grunge is probably my favorite genre of music. Yeah, say what you want; but, hey, I am still the target audience for that stuff. I only wish I could go back in time to see Nirvana performing live. Oh, well…

You guys know what has not been making a comeback in recent years? Yep, that good friend people like to shove onto an iced over lake…Disco. Under normal circumstances, I would say that’s for a good reason–all those colorful pantsuits are unsettling–however, I had a change of heart when I was listening to K.C and the Sunshine Band sing Shake, Shake, Shake (Shake Your Booty) while driving to college.

While it is odd–well, odd is being polite, Disco has a positive feel to it, ya know? You can listen to September on any occasion and have your spirits boosted; that, or any song by the Bee Gees. They just make you feel good.

Now, remember how I mentioned Grunge? Well, Grunge, in a way, is the alter ego of Disco. When listening to Grunge, I don’t exactly feel as positive as when listening to Disco , but that’s not really the point of Grunge.

I listen to Grunge if I need to reflect, and I mean deep reflections.

It’s hard to reflect with Disco if most of the lyrics are about jiggling your bahookie.

Still, in such a darkening world, I feel the need for some old fashioned bahookie jiggling, so long as pantsuits don’t become a fashion trend again. Disco provides the strange light that glows just enough to illuminate a dancing pad.

One more thing I want to add, as well, it’d be great to see a Saturday Night Fever revival–

What?

You say John Travolta is too old?

How dare you!

Think daily,

A Southpaw

A Journey Through College–Part 1

Dudes, I finished my first day of college today! Whoo-hoo! Are any of you excited for me–or, you know, at least, living reciprocally through my excitement? Hey, do what you folks want. I’m not here to judge…

Either way, boy, was this an interesting day. I’m not gonna go total description: there’ll be no ordered lists in this post; however, I will cover the most significant, perhaps strangest, points–

Well, we’ll start with parking. I know, I know, it sounds boring, at first, but let me explain.

When I have been traveling to the UCCS Campus after work in recent weeks, I have always been freaked out about the parking. Why? They got a friggin’ police station on the campus; yeah, cops in uniforms with non-plastic guns and everything. If I park in the wrong section, then I could get a ticket.

One memorable occasion was when I was first driving to the campus, searching for an unrestricted spot, and a police van pulled into the lane behind me. They followed me for about a mile. The whole time I was sweating and telling myself it was nothing–and thankfully, they turned into the parking garage, instead of pulling me over.

Phew!

Yes, I found parking, went to my freshman-fun-teaching class; it’s called Teaching In a Muggle World. Cue the Harry Potter jokes! I might as well say, too, Harry Potter is one of the reasons I chose to join that class, but the primary–more respectable–reason is that I want to be a high school English Literature teacher.

Any of you guys teachers? I can’t remember off the top of my head; so, if you are, please shout it out in the comments. Declare, with pride, you are, or were, teachers of some subject or other.

Muggle class was fun; although, I was bummed we didn’t just watch the Harry Potter films all day. A wasted opportunity is what I say–and I don’t say a lot in class, so…knowing that, let’s move forward.

Let’s see…there was the scavenger hunt around the entire campus, which wasn’t too bad, considering I run, a lot. I ran around with Gryffindor House–oh, yes, yours truly was sorted into Gryffindor, folks–and we asked these informative people about the different locations and their capabilities.

I remember especially when our group had to enter the library, this expansive, two-story haven of books, over which, I admit, I salivated. But the point of our visit was to collect info about study rooms, so we engaged this kindly old English Literature professor–hey!–and he talked for, say, twenty minutes of the hour given to complete the assignment.

A little preface: the library was our first location.

Now, I did appreciate the professor taking his time to explain the intricacies of the slightly complex library, and he also had that crinkly old man chuckle that makes most people smile…including me. He gave us our answers, wished us luck, and sent us on our way; what more could a guy ask for?

Lunch was burger and hot dogs–actually, who cares about lunch?

Moving on.

At the end of the day, feeling educated after a short session of Harry Potter Scene-It, I stopped outside Columbine Hall to pick up a free Sno-Cone. When I say free, I mean it was free after I had to complete a short survey. Eh, what does it matter? Got a cherry flavored Icee–uh, Sno-Cone.

So, that was it. College. A genuine experience.

It’s gonna be so simple; and I heard, the Chancellor was so impressed with my work ethic today, he’s handing me my diploma tomorrow.

Guess I’ll see you dudes on the other side.

Think daily,

A Southpaw