Dozens of campaign signs line the campus mall. The brightly colored paper, attached to cheap wooden stakes, occupies enough green space to make you think Buffy the Grass Slayer was in town. Are they for some important local election? No. Is there an important campus issue that needs attention? No.
They're campaign signs for Homecoming.
That's right, the biggest waste of time ever inspired by man is back. They'll be drunk, they'll have their "Blugold Spirit" (with whatever the hell a 'Blugold' is supposed to be...), and they'll have the most retarded high school-esque popularity contest to go along with it.
I wish that this was just a case of maturity. I wish it was just because I was 24 that I no longer 'understood,' but truthfully, I've never understood this. Heck, even when I was in High School, and we had this same sort of school sanctioned contest of popularity I didn't get what the big deal was. It's not that I'm old, it's that I just can't possibly buy into this.
Frankly, in my mind, there is a WHOLE LOT MORE GOING ON IN THE WORLD to worry about. I mean, for pete's sake, it's an ELECTION year. If you want a campaign to work on, don't lobby for Amanda/Bobby/Cindy/Andy/Whoever to get elected to a figure head position of no real consequence... pick up a campaign sign that means something... yeesh.
We were talking about heart attacks and strokes in my Kins 196 class today, which is unfortunate. It's unfortunate, because, for some reason or another, whenever someone brings up the subject and starts going into details, I start to hyperventalate.
I have no idea why.
So, I buried my nose in my Terry Pratchett novel, and will have to piecemeal study the text book on this one so I can be ready for the test on Wednesday. I really don't know why I have this reaction, but whenever you talk deeply about the heart, or heck -- most specific details about the cardiovascular system and the various things that can go wrong with it, I start to freak out a little. I've been like this since I was in fifth grade or so.
I don't know why, either. And it's not the physicality of the situation that freaks me out. I can handle it when I get injured, I've done disections without a problem, and I can handle tending to another's wounds... but I can't handle talking about it. Of all the weird things to be wrong with me, eh? I can help you when you have a broken arm, just don't talk about it while I'm doing it.