As I sit in an empty hallway with a bag full of textbooks and a laptop on my knees, it is suddenly dawning on me, Blog, that I am psychotic.
At my university, all classes start at ten minutes past the hour. This system was probably adopted to limit scheduling conflicts and to ensure students enough time to get from one end of campus to the other, but I can't help but feel like it summarizes the overall atmosphere of our school: laze in, laze out, take it easy, wear sweats. If you're ten minutes late, you're right on time.
I normally admire the type of people who don't allow themselves to be too consumed with fast-paced anxiety, the ones who find peaceful escapes from stress instead of always Starbucksing their way through the motions. And in a lot of ways, I'm one of them. The problem, however, is that no matter how artistic and writerly and smell-the-roses-ish I can be, I am incapable of being late. Incapable. For fear of holding people up or missing something important, I will always overestimate the amount of time it takes to complete a task or drive to the store or walk up a hill. So, when I tell myself that "Class starts at one," you can bet your ass I'll be there at 12:45.
But class starts at 1:10.
Meaning I'm twenty-five minutes early.
Which is basically half an hour early.
And what do you call the girl who's consistently half an hour early to an hour-long class?
Psychotic. We call her psychotic.
Chipotle burritos this year: 1
Nail color: Bare, but watch this.
Miles run today: None yet.
Miles run this year: 70