Top Five Conversation Topics

1. Zombies
2. Heroin
3. Charlie being crazy/Carrie being a bitch/Joel being a big smoking baby
4. Donnie Darko
5. Cigs

Some words on life at AQ, Pt. 4

Every night is different, yet, in the most rudimentary sense, the same as the one before. Almost every night we go on a walk. These walks differ in length and direction, but remain consistent in that we never seem to have a destination. We walk for the sake of walking, largely because it is one of the few options of things to do late at night, or very early in the morning. Much of our time together at night is spent either in the lounge of St. Joseph Hall, where we all reside, or outside on Cig Isle. In the lounge, we talk to each other over Facebook chat—quite pathetic, but it allows for private conversation within the large group we constantly gather in. The fad used to be comparing people on Facebook, but now has mutated into a Solitaire epidemic. Often, some time is spent at the Arts and Music Center, practice room 130. Charlie beats the drums, Joel strums and picks his guitar, and Carrie and I satisfy ourselves creating ambient sound by tapping the cowbell, scraping two rough rocks together. Often these jam sessions take place after our walk, usually around one or two o’clock in the morning. Each of us prides ourselves in our ability to stay awake until the early hours of the morning. Days blur and melt together, especially when we fail to sleep for two days straight. This happens more often than is generally healthy, but as Joel says, “Sleep is for dreamers.” We prefer to maintain consciousness for as long as our bodies will allow us to, and sometimes longer. We like to test our physical limitations, push the boundaries. As the early morning progresses, our numbers slowly decrease as people get sleepy and retreat to their rooms for rest. It is fairly standard for me to go to bed around five. Joel, Conor, and I are generally the last people in the lounge. Conor falls asleep there, and sometimes I do too. Soon, it is time to sleep. I wake Conor up and tell him it is time to change sleep locations. We go outside for a final cigarette before bed, then back inside, and up the stairs to the second floor. Conor and I change, wash our faces and brush our teeth, then pull ourselves up onto my lofted bed. I look out the window as I wait for sleep to overcome my mind. I shut my eyes, the dreams begin.

Some words on life at AQ, Pt. 3

After class on Mondays and Thursdays, I go straight to dinner with Carrie, Joel, Charlie, and whoever else comes along for the ride. Dinner time always promises awful food, accompanied by excellent company. The best thing about our friendship is that I rarely am required to think before I speak. It is perfectly legitimate for any of us to vocalize any thought. We all have opinions, and we do not hesitate to share them. Most conversations are overridden with frivolity and comedy. All we need is each other, and any dull moment subsides. Tuesdays and Fridays are different. Classes only run until twelve for me, so I spend some quality alone time, or go back to bed and nap with Conor until we wake up. In my alone time, I wander Wilcox Park, sit at the Smoker’s Table thinking thoughts, read, go for bike rides, check out the bookstores in Eastown; really, whatever I am possessed to do. I prefer to be alone outdoors. It is easier for me to think when I can really breathe. Wednesdays there are no classes, a completely open day. I tell myself that I will do homework during the day, but it never happens. I was born a procrastinator, and will die a procrastinator. Wednesdays play out like Tuesdays and Fridays, in the absence of classes.

Some words on life at AQ, Pt. 2

It is time for class. I gather my books and walk over to the Academic Building. When it is warm and sunny, I wear my sunglasses and walk at a normal pace. Today, it is cold and dark, so I’m bundled up in my hooded brown coat, hood up, with a scarf and mittens, and walking quickly. The speed of my pace, as well as the promise of the toasty Academic Building, warms me up considerably. I look around me as I walk, appreciating the beautiful campus I live on. Leaves of all autumn hues are scattered everywhere on the ground, swishing and crunching as students tread over them. In the trees above me, red, gold, brown, black, orange, yellow, and some green leaves cling for dear life to their branches, as the wind whips around them. The gray sky provides a sharp contrast to the colors, intensifying their glow. I finish my cigarette outside of AB, by the table out back, toss the end into the ashtray, and walk inside to class. I try to go to every one of my classes with a desire to learn. I pump myself up as I walk through the building, telling myself how excited I am to learn some new things, to think new ideas, to go to class. This technique is usually effective, with the exception of my Algebra/Trigonometry class. Algebra/Trigonometry is the most frustrating of all my classes by far. My teacher is Indian, and speaks English as a second language, so he is hard to understand. It does not help that math is my least favorite subject. In that class, my motivation to stay focused drops to zero. Most days, I zone out during math class, and just teach myself how to do the homework later. Otherwise, classes are pretty good. I like my professors, and I like the course material. Even in the instances where I do not have an interest in the material, I try to use the knowledge I am gaining to make connections to other subjects.

Some words on life at AQ, Pt. 1

On sunny days I awaken to light glistening in through my constantly open window. Cloudy days, the light is diffused and soft. I wake up at a different time each morning, or afternoon, or sometimes evening, based on the amount of sleep I obtained the previous night. Today is one of the grey days. I open my eyes and look across the room to see the time on my crimson microwave perched atop the refrigerator. I lie on my side with Conor’s arm limply draped over me. He is still asleep, and I am not surprised. I cuddle in closer—it gets chilly in the mornings—and due to the fact that my blankets have been dislodged and are no longer tucked in, several of them are on the floor below, further accentuating the shiver of the brisk morning breeze. It is too early. I turn my alarm off, and unwittingly drift back off to sleep, missing my 10:50 French 102. I do wake up with ample time to get to my 12:15 World History 162, however, and I am grateful for that. I roll over onto my left side and if Conor’s not awake yet, I whisper his name into his ear until he responds, usually with a groan, or a, “what time is it?” This morning, he is awake, and asks me what time it is. I tell him, and as usual, he replies, “FUCK!!” This signifies that he, like me, has slept straight through his first class. We talk in quiet voices for a bit until I decide that it is time for me to get out of bed. I kiss him on the cheek or forehead and say, “time to get up, kiddo,” or something of that nature. I swing out of bed like a clumsy, inexperienced acrobat, using the pipe above my bed. I push off the radiator or the windowsill with my toes, and land on the ground. My next destination is the bathroom. I wash my face and brush my teeth and sometimes my hair. I go back into my room, boil some water from the bathroom sink, and make some instant oatmeal, with some apple spider on the side. Clothes are scattered beneath my bed: I grab a shirt, a sweater, and pants, and put them on. Finally, it is cig time. If Conor has dragged himself out of bed yet, and gone to his room to get ready, I walk down the hall to his room. I place a cigarette between his lips, one between mine, and we walk down to the ground floor, then outside to Cig Isle to start the day right. The first cigarette of the day is always a good one. My body has been deprived of the constant nicotine intake of my waking hours, and as I smoke, I wake up, due to the gentle buzz spreading throughout my system. Conor and I are fairly quiet, retaining our morning voices, and sometimes I bring a mug of hot chocolate for us to share. We pass the mug, and exchange gentle conversation between ourselves, or with the other people sitting at the Smoker’s Table.