sms.

As many of you know, I use other people's alleged moral failings to justify my own mediocrity. That's Bonnie's diagnosis, at least. Whatever.

It's dirty. It's filthy. It's wrong.. and I like it.

Contrary to popular belief, I am not the worst person alive. Deep breaths, people. I know. It took me aback too. I like jokes. Not weapons. Not genocide. Not raw tomatoes. Just jokes. That's all.

I can see where one would get the idea that my remarks are a bit harsh, or as my teachers would say, "uncalled for," but one would be wrong. I am awesome. Sorry, one. Thanks for playing.

Wait. First. Really though. Does anyone understand how much wrath I get for things that I say? Granted, the majority of said wrath is just facial flinches, cringes, eye rolls and the always enjoyable, "Really, Stephanie?" ..but still. Wrath nevertheless. I suppose I keep you wrath-givers around to keep me in check or to serve as some sort of moral conscience. Sometimes it's just a buzzkill though.

I've got seven problems.. and you're five of them.

I'm joking. Totally just joking. Totally. See? There you go crying again. I'm sorry. I guess I just didn't realize we were against the whole stating the blatantly obvious thing. Moving on.

You think I am harsh? Meet the people I spend my time with.

I get by with a little help from my friends.

God, I'm so original. Allow me to brush my shoulders off. And done.

As I watched Milkshake spread his proprietary scent around his nesting site before class began, I decided to text every single person that I know in hopes of outside entertainment. I do this a lot. Those of you who fall victim to this each and every time, I am sorry. Not so sorry that I plan on stopping though. Only because you're doing so great. So, so great. Thumbs way up.

After mass texting out variations of the sweet command, "Entertain me," I began to reap benefits of awesomeness. After about the sixth text message, though, I realized something.

Friends. Dear, dear friends. My parents would so not let me be friends with you if we they were still setting up my play-dates and wiping my bottom. Oh, high school. Them were some good years.

I didn't ask for cruel remarks. I didn't ask for demeaning or harsh critiques of innocent bystanders. I asked for entertainment.

Entertainment, I received.

Responses to my request follow. Most are edited and condensed due to terrible grammar, even more terrible spelling, continuous conversation and the fact that I still want my family to love me if they read this.

- How much cleavage is too much cleavage when you have to walk by the brickyard preacher on the way to class? I'm at the Atrium, but I think I might skip.

- I RIPPED MY JEANS!!! They are so tight. Gross. This is why boys don't like me.

- John 3:16. Kill yourself and just come back later. I'm pretty sure it works that way.

- I think my lab partner might be a lesbian. Should I ask her or just touch her boobs and see what happens?

- This girl in my class... her face looks like a cat. Overwhelming desire to draw whiskers.

- How many black people are in your class right now? Don't lie to me.

- If you're in the library, DO NOT use the bathrooms on floors 2, 6, 7 or 9. I just did a very bad thing.

- I'm going to call you. Answer, pretend it's an emergency and run out of the room. Buy me a Mellow Yellow and bring it to me.

- Imagine me in fetal position underneath a tree.

- I just took someone else's Taco Bell order. Like Stephanie, I stole someone else's food. The rush is unreal.

- I'm pregnant.

- Have you ever punched a baby before? Like in the face? I'm about to punch this baby in line and I really need a strategy.

- I saw you earlier, but you were too far away to say anything. Are your jeans acid washed? Not ok.

- I want to jump my TA.... and not for his money.

- I have successfully avoided nine Pi Phis today. Angel of the Week, what WHAT!!?

- Your sister is so hot.

- DTF? I'm not, but if you are then I can be.

- I skipped all my classes today so I'm not going to pretend that I care that you're bored in yours. Sorry.

- I hate you.

- A baby can experience an orgasm in the first week of life.

- Go read a dictionary or whatever other weird stuff you usually read. I have better things to do.

- No.

- I saw you dancing in front of Daniels. That's why I didn't say hey.

ote.

OTE. Orally Transmitted Education. A disease, in itself.

African Literature has begun to serve as a catalyst for my literary expression. The beautiful song of culture and history lying just beneath the surface of African orature plays ever so softly as if the elevator music to my every conscious thought. Can you hear it?

Yea. Me either.

History has never really been my forte unless it entailed something about my life or that of people that I love. Not even them, really, unless it's something that could be used to hastily taunt or blackmail them down the road. Learning is great, but I have recently come to the conclusion that learning about things that were learned in the past for the sole purpose of teaching them in the future so they could be learned by people of the future to know things about people of the past, really serves no purpose for anyone. That didn't make sense to you? Well. Neither does this class.

Ok, so it kind of makes perfect sense, but being dramatic is kind of my thing. This being a literature class, I sit alongside eager students who are only concerned with filling their heads with information to the point where their necks shatter and they forcibly suffer from idiopathic scoliosis because their brains are so heavy. I'm sorry, but that is not motivation. That is just sad.

Right now we are focusing on several weathered plays of African culture. Discussing the shift in both orality and orature over generations of racism, revolutions and biased rhetoric has become the opening scene for every class lecture. How these changes fit into a myriad of different social, ideological and aesthetic needs in society is actually interesting. Sounds good enough, right?

I thought so too.

However, we are both wrong. Every time we flirt with the idea of finding entertainment or purpose in the pieces we are reading, there is always one student who raises his hand to question the deeper meaning. I'm sorry, sir. The author was a slave. Then she wasn't. She wrote about that extensively. Keep up. Deeper meaning? With the accumulation of wealth came the emasculation of man. That's why the husband kills himself at the end. What part did you miss?

Just in case you wanted to learn more, there is a preliminary section before the introduction to the Introduction that essentially says, 'I was a slave and then I wasn't. I am going to write about this. Money isn't everything in our culture. Honor is more. My husband commits suicide due to this. That is what this entire play is about. Goodbye.'

Luckily, not everyone in class is trying to pay homage to their ancestors by finding the root of the root of the root of every printed work. Thank Amma, right? For the most part, the back half of the room stays pretty quiet. We do the reading, agree to read aloud when called upon and never interject our emotional responses to words in front of us. Where I'm from, we call that "normal," and sometimes even "studious."

The very front of the classroom is proverbially filled with those that are either majoring in Literature or are visually impaired. Although the front section of a classroom typically entails the more spirited students with formidable brain power, there is some serious deviant shit going on in this African studies class. Three overachievers. Middle of the room. Their leader sits in the desk directly in front of me.

They counsel with spirits. They read into other men's souls. They swallow dog's eyes. Jump fires. Drink goat's blood. Sheep milk. Without flinching. Or vomiting. They do not feel, as you or I. They have no shame.

Together, they will be known as the Abiku Children. Historically speaking, reincarnation is a beautiful embodiment of culture and beliefs. Stephanie speaking, the continuous rebirth of my classmates is wholly due to the fact that I keep killing them off in my head during every discussion, yet somehow they keep coming back.

Fourth row, third seat from the right. He occasionally speaks with a British accent. He is from High Point. Every Monday/Wednesday he tries out a new assortment of powerful colors on his flannel shirt display. Cuffed manpris* and bleached hairs that fall over his left eye ever so poetically. None of his notebooks have any lines. Some people would call that a diary or a sketchpad. He uses Sharpee pens because they're his "fave." We will call him Blank Canvas. Ironically enough, I'm pretty sure his parents did the same thing when she was born.

Fourth row, second seat from the right. She lived in Owen our freshman year. Evenings spent taking hundreds of pictures in the large window at the end of the hall, she and my roommate had weekly Facebook album updates. America's Next Top Model was their goal. Since then, she has apparently turned her modeling dreams in for a Japanese inspired shoulder tattoo. Unsure of its meaning, we will call her Chopstick.

Third row, second seat from the right. There is no way that this man has never been arrested. The first day, he told us that every single one of his classes were held in the room we were sitting in, so planned to make it his home. And, that, he has. Oh, and just in case any of you were wondering, classrooms in Tompkins are not bathtub equipped. He openly refers to his "musk" as his "sex venom." I am not lying. He said those words. In that order. Although his venom may work magic on homeless women and unconscious children, it vaguely reminds me of aged dairy. This, matched with my confusion of his race, leads me to his new name of Milkshake.

Seeing as how this is what I have done during class, it will now conclude as my professor just did. Have no fear, the Abiku Children will be back. It's kind of their thing.

* Manpris: Capris for Men

window of opportunity.

Here we go, Anne. Persuasion at its best.

Over the past few years, I have spent a great deal of my time sitting on the very modern couches of Caldwell Lounge. When I was a freshman, I remember there being a large number of tables and chairs for students to eat near, congregate around and do work on, but that is about it. As time has passed, the number of tables have dwindled. Cushion-less couches and polka dotted foot stools have been brought in to take their place. Why the change? College of Humanities and Social Sciences, people. Let's be real. We only study if we look cool while we're doing it. The only reason they put Port City Java in the Park Shops is so we would have to walk through the Court of Carolinas. This obligatory stroll serves as a reminder of the beautiful, grassy hills waiting to be sprawled upon once the warmer months have arrived. Without that walk, CHASS students would never leave Caldwell Lounge.

Some call it home. Some call it the Disneyland of Language. Some may even refer it as the place where all Urban Outfitters clothes go to die. Me? I like to consider this room, 'Stalk Central.' Don't act like you don't know what I'm talking about. That window isn't there for architectural beauty. That window isn't there for environmentally friendly lighting. That window is there to serve one purpose: Voyeurism. Well, voyeurism without the sex. Well, maybe with the sex. It kind of just depends on who you are or what your research is in. Go communications, right?

We go. We go hard.

To all the students filling the halls of Tompkins, Caldwell and Winston, this window is known as, 'The Window of Animadversion.' Yep. Fact. Everyone calls it that. It's true. It is also completely normal that we call it that since we are Communication majors and we like to use big words. Ok. I'm just kidding. No one calls it that. Just me. And not even me, actually. I just googled a synonym for the word "stalk" to find "animadvert," so clearly this story is going great places. You're welcome.

So. What is so great about Caldwell Lounge? What is so great about the Court of Carolinas? What is so great about me talking about them? Uh. Nothing. God. Psht. Please. If you guys wanted legitimacy, you would have been gone a long time ago.

I now give to you: Observations From the Corner Couch of Caldwell Lounge. This list is sponsored by the entire bulk bag of peppermints I found when I was going through the cabinets under the sink by the drink machines.

- Too many skinny jeans, not enough females.

- A couple dining around a picnic basket, as they sit on a shared trench coat. They are outside. Dear precious couple that may have a hint of androgyny, it is cold outside. No peanut butter sandwich is worth frostbite, I promise you. And that is coming from someone who knows their peanut butter. Not worth it.

- Converses. Like, out the yang. You heard me. Not just the ying, but the YANG.

- A girl on a polka dotted foot stool. She is sobbing. Reading a book while doing so, yes.. but still sobbing. Either she is upset that there are no couches available or she is reading, 'Things Fall Apart.' You decide.

- Man with lots of face hairs napping in his hammock. Said hammock is roped between two trees outside, just below the window. Did I mention it is 24 degrees? Dumb, sir. You are dumb.

- Toboggan. Jean shorts. Uggs. Three items. Two seasons. One outfit. Girl, bye.

- Far couch. The couch is purple. Maybe for good reason. Girl sitting upright on couch. Girl sitting on floor, just below her. There is a hairbrush involved. Stroking and giggling follows. They are not 12, nor are they at a slumber party. Ladies. This is real life. Ladies. This is college. Ladies. This is public. Ladies. This is just awkward.

- Boy next to upright girl is watching keenly out of the corner of his eye. I can't tell if he is disgusted, amused or just patiently waiting for the initial shoulder kiss and instantaneous make-out session. Inspired by his Literature and Film class, perhaps he is just casting extras for his latest movie project, 'You've Got Male.' Who knows.

- Stumbles. Yes, I give this name to a lot of people, but we have a new winner. He is approximately 6'4", not very dark or handsome, but may or may not have exceptional hearing. If I knew the size of his ears, I could tell you more, but the hair falling ever so beautifully to his belt line is currently obstructing the view of those bad boys. Coincidentally enough, the same long locks are also hindering my ability to decipher whether this "Stumbles" is actually male. Regardless of his ears, hair and gender though, he definitely still learning about his feet. And how to use them. Eating brick is only fun if you're this guy. Sorry, Stumbles. Thanks for playing. Try again.

- Making his way across the field of dreams is a large Hispanic man with an ass that won't quit. Recognized. He is in my African Lit class. He is great. He always does the reading and is an exceptional speaker. Fun fact though.. if someone ever forced him to choose between having athlete's foot or body odor, he would most definitely choose body odor. And he would choose it EVERY. TIME. Indubitably.

- Middle table. Spotted. Boy who dated Emily.. and then Sarah.. and then Emily.. and then Sarah.. and then not Sarah.. and then Sarah.. and then Emily.. and then Sarah.. and then not Sarah.. and then kind of Sarah.. and now not kind of Sarah. His skin is like porcelain. Not the, "Oh my god, your skin is so beautiful it looks like porcelain" porcelain, but more like the, "Your face could be a ceramic plate," kind of porcelain. Dude. No lies. Either way, I'm jealous. I wonder what his SkinID is? I should ask. And by ask, I mean should definitely not ask and should stop staring.

- I tried giving the rest of my M&Ms to a girl who was in my seminar freshman year. She declined. Bitch. I know for a fact she likes M&Ms. She clearly just doesn't trust me. I guess some friendships don't last forever. Way to let a girl down, Naiima. I really thought we would last.

Done and done. African Literature is calling. Not that I'm answering it, but I'm probably just going to go watch it ring for a while.

Your turn, Masich. Bring the Dane.

death by carrot.

I know I'm more talented than all of you. Britney Spears taught me that.

Talent is a beautiful thing. Maya Angelou believed that every person is born with talent. Stephen King said that talent is cheaper than table salt. Ralph Waldo Emerson said something about how every man has his own vocation, but talent is the call. What do all of these things have in common? Hell if I know, but I just hastily quoted three legitimate people that used the word talent. You should be really impressed. I wrote an essay on talent and what it meant to me at some point in my life and slightly recall these people having said those things. I am grateful that none of you care enough to inquire their validity.

Back to the root of this insightful tangent.. TALENT. I have very few respectable talents, but lucky for me, I am blessed with people in my life whose talents go above and beyond normal expectations. Like my girl Maya said, talent is something people are born with. Although this is probably very true, sometimes we just have to take things into our own hands. Case in point, Sarah Shelton and her experience with baby carrots.. or as we like to call it over here on Clark, "The Carrot Incident."

You see what had happened was, Sarah turned eight. As her eighth birthday approached, her parents asked if she were to receive only one thing on her big day, what it would be. Sarah thought about this for days. Her birthday list entailed tie-dyed Beanie Babies, Samantha, the American Girl doll, the Peg Game from the Cracker Barrel and at the very top of the list was a Magic Glow Doodle Bear. Although she would have been happy to receive any of these, the concept of only one gift really started to eat away at her. One gift. Only one gift. Would a Beanie Baby suffice? Would its swirled rainbow coat keep her satisfied during those long, dark nights she spent sleeping over with her grandmother? What about Samantha? How many times can you really brush a small patch of synthetic hair before you realize that maybe your time could be better spent doing pretty much anything else? Then, there is the Peg Game. I mean, no child wants to be an Eg-No-Ra-Moose, but triangular pieces of wood are so second grade. Last, but not least there was choice numero uno, the Doodle Bear with glowing capabilities. All the cool girls in Sarah's class had Magic Glow Doodle Bears. Like, only the cool girls had them. The only thing Sarah had comparable to their coolness was the whole early bloomer thing she had going on underneath the snaps of her jean jumper. Was the Doodle Bear what she needed to finally earn her bow into the Summerfield Elementary School of Slampieces-in-training? Negative.

--

Uh. Hold that thought.

Caveat. I had great intentions of making this the longest post ever in order to impress all of you. Ok. That is a lie. In actuality, I had hopes of abashing Sarah's character and causing confusion to unknowing parties in the process. Fortunately for you guys, I lost interest in such an endeavor and stopped the extremely captivating story ten minutes after its commencement. My apologies. The above piece of completely factual information has been sitting in Draft form for the past month or so. Upon request by people personally affected by this sweet story, I am now posting it. Rather than finishing the anecdote in its current state, I decided that I am just not going to. Instead, I'll give you a more brief version.

In short, Sarah thought it would be really cool to impress her friends with throwing objects in the air and thereafter, catching them in her mouth. Funny how some things never change, right? Anyway, after trying the traditional grapes, popcorn and varying adolescent snacks of the sort, Sarah was ready for an upgrade. That's right. Carrots. Yes, you may now ooh and aah. I know I did.

After several attempts to take full sized carrots to the face, Sarah decided that maybe third grade wasn't a good year to die after all. To each his own, I guess. Finally, Sarah's sweet mother coaxed her into trying carrots of smaller proportions. Enter: baby carrots. After one successful catch, she was hooked. You know what they say; once you baby carrot snack, you can't go back.

Day in and day out, Sarah carried around her miniature Ziploc bag of baby carrots. Walking the hallways of her elementary school and the ghetto backstreets of Greensboro, she would find any willing audience and show her talent. "Watch this," was quickly followed by a toss, catch, chomp and smile. Such a cute smile it was, since she didn't have any teeth. Ok, I'm joking. She had teeth. I think. Maybe. We're still not sure if the ones she has now are real.

One afternoon, Sarah was on a roll with carrot charade. Nothing could stop her! That is, until, something did.

It was snack time at Sarah's after-school program. You know, the program where they keep all the criminal children until their parents remember to come get them after they've met their daily quota in drug sales. As everyone pulled out their Gushers and Fruit Roll-Ups, Sarah whips out her carrots, stands on top of the wooden bench and demands everyone's attention. After all the children have made Sarah their focus, she ties back the dreads of her white girl weave with her hot pink, cotton scrunchie.

Knees bent, head back, Sarah throws the carrot into the air. Mouth wide open, eager for the catch, to Sarah, the carrot seems to be flying in slow motion. The sun was in her eyes. She began to break into a sweat in fear that she would not catch it as her friends watched. Then, everything went black. Sarah had successfully caught the carrot, but something had gone terribly wrong. What happened, you ask? Let me tell you. The carrot? Yea. It had "fallen" down her throat. Fallen was her word choice, not mine. I feel like hers will be more.. appropriate for public posting though.

It had happened. Sarah had choked... on a baby carrot. In front of everyone! Oh, the embarrassment. Oh, the shame. Sarah was mortified.

To this day, Sarah doesn't eat carrots.. or baby carrots.. or babies, in general for that matter. Additionally, she steers clear of any game that involves catching flying objects in her mouth. To you, this may seem like a life experience that poor Sarah is missing out on. You are right. However, sometimes sacrifices must be taken to avoid death by carrot. Please understand.