September 5 Hating the summer for ending before I could write an epic, archive each of my photographs, read the library, and revamp this page was fun. Perpetuating one's misery always leaps in front of other priorities. There were moments when I wondered if school and work were necessary to give my life shape. Or, to simply give me a life. I never grew bored without buttons to press, nor did I lack pages to turn. Though I would like to vehemently deny it, part of me craves structure. The obstacle course is engaging. The fear of my mind leaking out my ears while I sleep is dampened by challenges, goals, and a porpoise. Purpose does not hurt either.
6:25 pm
A year ago, everything around me was foreign. I could not fathom being seventeen and in college. Withdrawing from it all to become absorbed in my studies made sense. Then something happened that made everyone else as alienated as I. It was a strange year. I tiptoed through it, unaware I was simultaneously kicking ass. Most of all, I stayed hidden.
With the 101 classes out of the way, it is finally starting to feel like college. On Mondays, Wednesdays and Fridays, I watch Dr. Brown wax philosophic and impersonate Dr. Evil. Then, Professor Russell shares his love of literature and Hitchcock as we dare to compare. The Scroll is Union County College's newspaper. It is offered as a class, because if it was not, the four other people in it and myself would have no impetus to produce a newspaper. As I sit before my computer wearing only bubble wrap and downloading files from KaZaa, I can also take tests for my computer class. Pouncing on an opportunity to be lazy and reclusive, I signed up for Intro to Computer Applications-entirely online.
Beginning French II was also on the agenda. Fate deemed French and Thursday evenings incompatible. A total of six people registered for the class. With few professors zealous to teach it, it was canceled. I will assume it is auspicious, get the two hundred eighty-six dollars put back on my Mom's MasterCard, and enjoy not watching "Friends."
My ankles still hurt.
Some bizarre form of overdrive gripped them yesterday. Of course, the magnets implanted in each of my feet could have been drawn to Follett's iron carpet. A curtain could have performed the task, if there were windows. I arranged a schedule without regard to the ensuing chaos and departing cashiers. Instead of leaving at five, I honored a vague dedication and stayed until eight thirty. What was supposed to be six hours of work became nine and a half.
No, I did not take a break.
After our reacquaintance, the financial aid system and I have overcome our differences. Our rapport deepened, time was of the least significance, and the discrepancies dissolved once we were alone. Or I realized the benefit of hurling myself into beyond me. Once the soliloquy was silenced, a frenzied rush took over. I kept moving from the computer to the customers, shifting, twisting, typing, writing, bagging, and running to photocopy Scholarship forms. Slower than frenetic transactions, the joints and spasms did not interject with sensations of pain. Of course, they'd speak up if the line dissipated. Not moving hurt more. If work was excruciating, I would have sliced out my heart, cut Follett's ties to it, and walked out as lines traced the store's perimeter.
But I was enjoying myself, my legal stimulants, the expedition of sales sans currency, and helping people not pay for their books. Confidence was gleaned from knowing the process and passing it on. Jabez and I worked well together. I started a new log at four thirty, and completed fifty transactions over the next four hours. With him on the register and me on the A/R, it averaged one transaction every five minutes. Considering the steps involved, how the line disappeared occasionally and the numbers matched, that is not bad.
Maybe working like I did is a healthy escape. I forget myself in mundane surroundings, and am glad it is not home. Instead of disparaging myself for not using time effectively, I get paid for some of it. It seems sensible, and natural to be selling books again. Once I start burying my head in them in hapless preparation, I will have come home.
