Nothing is more frightening than the thought of going to class. If you can’t understand why, allow me to explain.
I usually get up every morning and do my daily morning routine – shower, clothes, breakfast. Then I hop down the staircase that descends from my University Park apartment. Hopping down the stairs, I imagine what it would feel like to trip and tumble down the concrete steps, smashing my glasses and crushing my teeth.
Down on the ground, I mount my bicycle and ride at a brisk pace through the parking lot. Meanwhile I envision being hit by a moving car which would send me flying off my bike into the air. Fortunately, what goes up must come down, and so I would be greeted by the cushiony surface of pavement.
Continuing my way to class, I ride past the Don Morris building where a tall, steel rod protrudes from the yard. In my head I picture the front page of the next Optimist – “Student impaled by yard pole” with a lovely photo of me trying to free myself from the metal sticking through my punctured chest.
Arriving at class, I dismount my bike to enter a large building with more stairs to climb. The visions of broken teeth and shattered bones keep haunting as I run to the top floor.
At lunch, I walk to the Bean and stand in line for a meal as I notice students holding their eating utensils in an improper manner. They point at friends with their knives, and make gestures with forks poking out. Watching these people make me wonder what it would be like to get stabbed in the eye with one of those forks waving in the air.
After getting my meal, I walk by the lovely ebony piano with the top opened. I’d like to run my fingers over the edge of the piano and caress its smooth finish, but then I imagine the top crashing down onto my digits, chopping them off whole like a cleaver on baby carrots. After that, I imagine screaming in agony over my injuries.
After a hard day at school, I walk back to my bike and notice a green golf cart from the Central Plant cruising toward me. The cart is moving fast. I envision myself I dodging to the right. Then dodging to the left. Still – the cart thrusts into my small body like a runaway train. It picks me up over the hood and the cab, and drops me onto the cement. The last sound I hear is my skull cracking like an egg.
No, this isn’t morbid. This is just the honest fear I have of going to class every morning.