Literally Daydreaming in Literature

The pencils glided along the paper, continually making a faint hissing noise and occasionally releasing a small squeak. Everyone around me seemed to be writing while I quietly scanned the room trying to find someone else who forgot to do the first day’s assignments.

The girl wearing a green dress beside me appears to have just finished writing. She’s cute. I’d say she’s about 5’4; she’s more than likely in a sorority, possibly Delta Gamma, and walks around the campus wearing heels. She’ll lean her head on her right hand, held up by her skinny elbow resting on the desk. She has a pink water container and sips water like most the girls in these “attractive” sororities do – she’ll look up, briefly close her eyes, place the plastic sippy-straw on the tip of her lips, and sip – then she’ll slip off her shoes and expose her freshly painted toes as she waits for the instructor’s lecture.

I take my eyes off this presumably 3rd year English major and focus my eyes to the front of the class. The professor, a young African American lady, begins talking and assures those of us that didn’t access the required reading assignment were okay and would have the opportunity to reflect on the essay at home. She begins the classroom discussion on the aforementioned reading assignment - a piece from the “Age of Realism” about war and love.

By the 20-minute mark, the class begins to open up a bit. At this time I learn who plays what role in this character-filled room. Behind me is the know-it-all that answers questions with confidence and condescending voice patterns, in hideous southern twang. Ironically enough, she’ll have to be corrected every time she answers a question, and proves to actually know absolutely nothing, about anything. A few rows to my left, a closeted lesbian sits comfortably in her tie-dye t-shirt. She has a deep voice and an Adam’s apple the size of my ...

I kid; she has no Adam’s apple, just the deep voice, and a faint mustache. She too is quite the know-it-all, except she makes sense. She’s actually quite smart, I conclude, from the two 50-minute classes I’ve attended.

Behind her is the leader of the social outcast crew. Does that make sense? If a person is considered a social outcast, could they realistically be the leader of a group? Are they the voice of the voiceless and dateless? It’s almost like an anarchist rally. If anarchists are rallying, an organized, hypocritical gathering ruins their sole mission. If you cannot trust anarchist, then whom can you trust?

Anyways, the social outcast crew typically wears faded t-shirts with 1980-esque drawings of wolves. The wolves are typically set in a purplish-blue background, possibly representing the night, and tend to appear as if they’re howling at the moon. This goes for both males and females. The only thing separating the men and women in the group is facial hair. Often times, the men lack true facial hair, but the women sport large enough beards to go around.

Finally, after identifying other minor roles, I think of the role I play. What am I to these people I’ve never met, but managed to fantasize about 1/3 of the girls in the class? Maybe I’m the cynical asshole that will casually ruin someone’s day. No, that’s not me. Contrary to popular belief, I have a huge heart. I could be that guy who thinks way to highly of his self and never talks to anyone because they are not worth my time, but that would only true when referring to the social outcast crew. Don’t get me wrong, I have nothing against Bob Ross, the guy that painted “happy trees,” but when your everyday attire looks like an original Ross painting, we have nothing in common.

Cheers,
Victor