Not only was my head filled with valuable (hopefully reusable) information pertaining to two fascinating subjects (Astronomy and Psychology) but I didn’t have any trouble getting the Good Couch in the Student Lounge over my five hour break which is usually a problem on Tuesdays. To add some sprinkles to this already scrumptious day: I received optimal parking, had delicious thanksgiving leftovers, finished all my work, chatted with some friends, and even got in an hour of writing.
And, things only get better when school is done for the day.... right?
I walked into the cafeteria, ecstatic when I noticed there was a spot on the leather couches therein. Plopping down, I set out to wait for Ramona to finish classes so we could drive home, hang out and have an all around enjoyable time.
I was practically humming.
Then, I digested my surroundings. The other three couches were occupied by an eccentric (to put it nicely) group of characters. Obviously all friends, they carried on a lively discussion – now, I’m not going to sit here and condone eavesdropping (what would your mother say, right?) but really, when people are subliminally screaming for attention with their body language and volume, how can you not?
What followed was one of the most scarring 23 minutes and 48 seconds of my life.
It began with an anecdote on the cheap quality of the cafeteria’s spoons. The spoons, you see, melt in the soup. This of course provided them with ample material to make terrible jokes, produce unwanted imagery (for me, at least) and make themselves look like moronic idiots.
They veered off on a tangent to discuss how through the use of Hardcore Metal an average, geeky kid (with acne riddled armour), glasses, and his ever faithful electric guitar would defeat all evil in the world (with a sufficient amount of gore), acquire ceaseless fame along with heaps of cash, and finally win that bodacious babe (who had always been just out of his reach – he would stick it to all the kids who mercilessly teased him with this one, certainly!).
A girl among them, with frumpy clothing and a green (possibly homemade) scarf swathed around her neck turned the debate from The Boy Who Slayed to proper pregnancy prevention. How, I hear you asking?
Well she took the hands on approach.
And no, I don’t mean she grabbed someone, shoved him on the table and proceeded to have her wicked way with him, for all to see.
Instead, she casually took a condom from her wallet (which, may I add, is not a proper storage technique), unwrapped it like Christmas came early and rolled it on. Her hands. Both of them. I stared in absolute horror as she wiggled her fingers in their newfound constraints. She began pulling her hands apart and slowly putting them back together, playing with the resistance of the material.
Surprisingly it took the rest of her comrades a good five minutes to notice her current mode of entertainment. Oh, if only I had been so lucky.
“What are you doing! No, better question - why is there a condom on your hands?” A newcomer – the one to notice her occupation – with wildly bushy hair and neon green, pink and yellow tie-dye cut off shorts asked his friend.
“I like the way it feels.” She replied, perfectly serious.
I threw up a little. No, seriously – who in their bloody right mind would even say such a thing in the middle of a cafeteria when there are loads of people around. Wait, why am I even asking that question when I’m talking about the same girl who whipped it out in the first place.
Obviously the chick is not in her right mind.
Through strenuous analysis (or uncomfortable situations that make one wish they were both blind and deaf – not an often occurrence I assure you) I’ve realized that talking about condoms leads to talking of sex which, in turn, leads to someone feeling the need to express their sexuality.
Within minutes another girl (this one with shredded black leggings so you could see 70% of her legs) predatorily approached the leader of The Boy Who Slayed discussion (obviously a geeky boy, acne and glasses included) before straddling him and giving him a thirty second, free of charge, preview of her future career as a lap dancer.
I know your thinking the same thing I was – what the hell is wrong with these people?
If I knew, I’d tell you.
Every single one of them laughed, cheered her on and then complained when she hopped off him with a saucy little smile and burst into laughter herself.
To add his own piece to the excitement, our observant tie-dye aficionado, decided (and proclaimed) the best way to mix his salad was to imitate a vibrator. I, grudgingly admit, he pulled off the impersonation (can you say that about an inanimate object?) perfectly. Every single muscle in that boy’s body shook aggressively.
It would have been impressive, humorous even, if it wasn’t so horrifying to witness.
Finally, Frumpy Condom Girl's excessive manipulations caused the condom to snap and break. She peeled the tattered remains off her hands, threw the destroyed item on the floor, rubbed her hands together, and sniffed them. Yes, she sniffed them.
Two words that come to my mind? Fucking gross.
Of course, she became the hot topic of discussion among her friends - again.
This proved to be enough for me as I studiously hid behind my computer screen for the last five minutes, unable to do much of anything since I was in such a state of bewilderment.
Throughout all of this random discussion, occasionally someone would break out in a terrible rendition of several lines from random songs. It was overlooked by everyone, it seemed, but me.
Ramona’s class finally let out and she joined me on the couch, apologizing for being late. I wasn’t so forgiving, as I deftly pointed out, I was surrounded by a bunch of freaks. Ramona looked around – one of the boys had decided to stand on the table and make grandiose motions with his hands (only god knows why) – it took her all of 10 seconds to giggle and wholeheartedly agree.
They were whack-jobs, the lot of them.
So you can understand my frustration when Ramona informs me that she forgot about the rehearsal she needed to attend later on, so she wouldn’t be needing that ride after all. I was subjected to that.... suffering, for nothing.
23 minutes and 48 seconds of my life that I will never get back. Good grief, the things one must endure for their friends.
The dénouement to my now (according to the scaling of Good vs. Bad) mediocre day is: traffic was horrendous and though my stomach was grumbling at nearly half past six, there was no dinner.
Ah well, maybe this will brighten someone else’s day as they laugh at the absurdity of it all.
You win some, you lose some, right?
Word Of The Day: Lackadaisical - without interesest, vigor or determination; listless; lethargic; indolent; lazy