Parking the Car :: Short Story New York Papers

Parking the Car Today has been like most days. I wandered in a dreamlike state from class to class, across a campus with falling fiery leaves, up three flights of beer-stained stairs, into a populate cluttered with the debris of my chaotic existence, and straight back into a chronically unmake bed. I chased images and thoughts in my mind, getting nowhere, while faintly aware(p) of music drifting from my computer. I closed my eyes without trying, and dreamt without sleeping, and thought without idea real thoughts. I spent as much time luxuriating in nothingness as I could, before the bar of guilt and province clamped down on my shoulders, compelling me to do homework, to think about thinking. without delay it is back to nothingness. I am lying on our dorm room floor delighting in an unexpected snack.This is damn good stuff, I say, shoving a tortilla heaped in salsa into my greedy mouth. This is amazing, Thea agrees, shutting her eyes to intensify the already orgasmic sustain of eating homemade chunky salsa.I disregard the desperate and offended pleas of my hall mates as small pieces of tomato fly from my overladen tortilla onto the rug. The poor chip is terribly regarded down and breaking under the pressure, causation salsa to slide off on all sides. I remember that in a moment of frenzied sanitary obsession last week, I actually cleaned the toilet. There is, therefore, no reason to be clean now. I recline in a salsa-induced stupor, squinting in vague distinctiveness at a exfoliation of cookies in the kitchen. I try to send away them, but I just cant. Eat us, they hiss.I saunter unenergetically into the kitchen and engage in a momentary face-off with the provocative plate of cookies. My heart speeds up for a moment as I weigh the attributes of each cookie. I dont want to make a mis take a leak and take the wrong cookie. That always happens, and I end up resenting my cookie and communicate it why it cant be more like the other cookies. I at las t settle on the biggest one, though it does seem to have fewer raisins than the others, a drawback that bothers me. Nonetheless, I secure my fingers around the cookie in a defensive death-grip, which means Ill be eating a cookie as headspring as a little bit of everything else Ive touched today. Oh well.