I sat in his office, inquiring cautiously as to whether I might get my incomplete changed into a passing grade. He suggested I would have had a better chance if I had contacted him at the beginning of the summer. When I told him I thought he had simply been late with his grades, he explained that it was typical of students like myself to neglect my college career as I had. So I turned my face inside out and, in a fury of dripping, thrashing tentacles, ripped apart his tender body and ingested his lifeless flesh. As I walked out of his office, I began to ask myself in what other fashion I might complete my Humanities cluster.
Many people ride the bus daily.
So many students, staff, and professors spend fifteen minutes here and back everyday that it becomes part of the background of life. An Indian student gets on, dressed in slacks and a dress shirt. Every so often, I get on the bus just to visit the driver. I can hear two girls in the back talking about some black-haired weight lifter they met at the gym. There's a big difference between getting on the bus to go from one place to another and just hanging around for the entire circuit.