My Life

My legs grow tired as I stand in the line of a small smoothie shop on my college campus. I glance to my right and see my roommate Phill. Phill has the smile of a little boy as he eagerly waits to order a smoothie, which is his self-proclaimed favorite drink in the entire world. The smile makes him look kind of retarded. A smell crawls through my nostrils and I begin searching for the source. The boy in front of me is wearing a bright red button up shirt, a Spiderman tie, a black suitcase, and his hair leaves the impression that he hasn’t showered for weeks. The stench emitting from his body reminds me of a pile of throw up sprayed with cologne, then covered with a layer of whipped cream. I notice that there is a space of emptiness surrounding him, everyone trying to stay as far away as possible. I begin to feel sympathy toward him until my mind reminds my self that it’s his own fucking fault. This realization instills a sense of dislike in me. How dare this boy ruin my smoothieing experience!

Time moves slowly, as it so often does when we are miserable. I wonder if time has slowed for the rest of the people within range of the ghastly odor. I seriously begin contemplating hitting him in the back of the head and expressing my rage, but before I get the opportunity, he moves up to the register to place his order. He walks over to the waiting spot where a group of people are waiting for their smoothies. The group scatters like a flock of birds when a rock is thrown toward them; the aroma serving as a symbolic rock, hitting each of them in the head and nearly knocking them unconscious. I smile and begin to walk toward the cashier to place my order.

“What would you like, sir?” I find it funny how this man, 40 years my senior refers to me as “sir.”

“A raspberry banana smoothie, ple” my speech is interrupted by Spiderman.

“Oh my gosh, I almost got that! Do you like those?” I shake my head in utter disbelief. How did this fucking moron get into college?

“Not a bit!” I respond. “I actually just like spending money on things I don’t enjoy. It’s this weird habit of mine.”

He smiles and nods his head in approval. I think he believes me. I reach for my wallet in shame and disgust, pay the man and go outside to get some fresh air. My roommate comes out and stands next to me and we look for a place to sit. Phill notices some blonde girl with boobs bigger than my head sitting by herself, so naturally, we sit in the empty seats. Without asking our names, she looks at Phill’s tattoos and says,

“Oh my gosh, tattoos! Those hella hurt!” I look toward Phill and watch as his eyes linger up from her breasts to her face. He looks stunned.

“Do they really? I had no fucking idea!” Obviously missing his blatant sarcasm, this sad excuse for a college intellect continues,

“Not to mention, they stay on your skin forever.” She says this as if she’s speaking to a teacher, clearly expecting to impress. The whites in Phill’s eyes begin to grow, he looks toward me with a face of clear surprise.

“No way!” He reaches down to his tattoos, and begins forcefully scratching and rubbing them in an attempt to wipe them off.

Moral of this story? Good news! You don’t have to be smart to go to college….

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