On the first day of class my psychology professor typecast philosophy majors as inferior in the spectrum of academic disciplines and enacted a thespian stereotype of philosophy majors which I found to be in poor taste and I would still prefer to read a philosophy textbook over a psychology textbook.
At Target there was a girl crouched down in the black opaque section of tights so I feigned interest in the garish ones because I was waiting for her to leave so I can look at the black ones and when she saw me looking at a pair of grey cable-knit tights up close because I could not see without my glasses, she rudely got in front of me to look at them but I was really not interested in those.
Earlier today I was watching a documentary film on modern art narrated by Orson Welles and French art critic Pierre Schneider when I wondered what became of the guy from my art history class who always raised his hand during lecture to peruse each painting on the overhead projector from the Early Renaissance to the Pre-Raphaelites with credible verbal caricature.
My philosophy professor made fun of a former student who had a 4.0 grade point average that got a “B” in his class and how she would call him crying on the phone asking for a grade change and I am just so glad this type of girl exists.
On Monday the professor called us up to his desk by alphabetical order to critique our paper(s). He said I need to diverge from cryptic prose ramblings when explaining philosophical arguments. I have been sleeping in class ever since.
The restroom on the first floor was without soap. The girl rinsing her hands with hot water asked me if I wanted to go with her to a restroom on another floor to wash our hands. I had fifteen minutes before my next class so I agreed and followed her. I did not know who she was but I simulated her germaphobic neurosis up four flight of stairs. I told her about the faulty engineering on the second floor and she concurred.