“For someone who was never meant for this world, I must confess I’m suddenly having a hard time leaving it.”
– Vincent Freeman, Gattaca
Ants scurry across my body. They infest the park bench I sit on. A group of girls play Frisbee nearby. Sirens wail in the distance. A white girl clad in traditional African clothing marches past.
I eat free ice cream. A religious club is handing it out. They use it in hopes that young people will be enticed into joining their upcoming mission trip to the Arctic Circle. Inuit heathens still roam the tundra. It would be a shame to let people from a cold weather climate spend all eternity burning in hell.
I read a bulletin board. There’s a guest speaker next week. She’ll be discussing the detrimental effects that twerking has on the feminist movement. Envisioning her audience forces me to stifle a laugh.
Squad cars descend like vultures. Terrified students are rounded up like cattle. You can fight in the army but god forbid you drink a beer. I walk away from the raid. Party time is over.
I’ve gotten a weekend’s worth of college experience. All it cost me was a tank of gas.