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I’m standing in the common room, turning in circles. I’ve so many things to do, all at once, I can’t figure out which way to jump. A time management problem, I suppose, maybe I should have taken that 1 credit
‘project management’ class I sloughed off. We live and we learn.

Leong was sitting, leg crossed on the red corduroy couch reading.
“Can you do me a favor?” I asked her sweetly (a poker player would call that a ‘tell’).
“I can’t get involved,” she replied, not even looking up, “I have my own problems.”
I thought for a second, “What problems do YOU have?” (We talk, I know ALL of her problems.)
“Internal problems,” she said, “the kind you can’t see.”
“I need to take a lab tonight, so I can go to a secret society meeting tomorrow,” I confessed, “can I swipe your ID, when I put my laundry in the dryer, so it notifies you to pick it up?”

“You’re telling me about a secret meeting?” she asked, finally looking up, “AND, you’re asking me to get your laundry?“ she added devilishly, “Is it because I’m Chinese? THATs racist.”
“Ok” I laughed, “that was funny,” I congratulated her, “I hadn’t thought of THAT.” She fairly preened at the complement. “WELL?” I followed up, giving her a head-tilt.
“On the hook,” she said, meaning her ID was hanging on the 3M scotch fastener by her door.
“Thanks,” I said, “you’re a lifesaver—a cherry lifesaver—I updogged.” I’d finally found a direction.
“Zong gwai,” she mumbled, turning back to her book.
*Zong gwai (Cantonese) literally means "encounter a ghost," but the colloquial meaning is "damn right."

As I walked up science hill to the extra lab. I was so tired, it felt like I fell asleep between each step, but every step jarred me awake—it was like a child playing with a light switch.
As I got up near the main entrance, there were these two guys I don’t know standing around.
“Hey there,” one of them said. At first I thought he was going to ask for something innocuous, like directions but he broke into a smirk and I realized this was some kind of catcall and I took an angle away from him.

When I first started school, three years ago, you’d get catcalled once or twice a week, at most, but it seems like it’s more frequent now, three or four times a week (roommates compare notes) like some barrier is breaking down. What nomenclature would you use, for a catcalling guy? Most of ours are unfavorable.

There were other people around, so I wasn’t worried about him—still, he stepped towards me—smirking.
“Are there any other mediocre men where you come from?” I inquired across the distance, still angling away.
“Who said I’m mediocre?” he asked, but his smirk slipped and he stopped moving. I was 20 feet from the door.
“If I’m gonna bouncy with someone,” I shared sarcastically, “it has to be done with authenticity.”
“My GPA is solidly in the median,” he admitted, with a half chuckle, as I crossed the center point of our arch.
“I’m sure you’re being your best self,” I assured him, as the automatic doors to the lab opened and I entered, shaking my head to myself.
.
.
Songs for this:
When Did We Stop by New Move
Stopping a Garden Hose With Your Thumb by The Narcissist Cookbook
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