Critical Thinking 1:00 p.m. Harrin Hall, Mondays, Wednesdays and Fridays

I slowly swirled my Pilot VBall-grip fine point black pen around the white bottle cap attached to the Aquafina base. Like the sound of a YKK zipper on a pair of washed out Levis, the pen rotates as I slowly begin to lose focus. He's talking about pot or something; traffic laws and "chicken shit towns", allegedly. The snow white concrete wall looks like a community of unknown specimen, but some can be identified, such as that previously chewed then carelessly stuck-on-the-wall hardened gum... you know, the kind like Bubblelicious, when the flavor of strawberry kiwi flows through the air two feet away and gladly travels up your unexpecting nostrils. And now my trusty pen has begun to run out of ink, like my level of concentration has commenced to scrape the bottom of the sanity barrel, and I switch to pencil, which I hate, by the way, and I am not so sure as to why. Maybe it's because it requires sharpening (those high maintainence Papermates) or that it gives me those calluses that form on your ring finger right below your nail and won't ever go away, like the never-ending droning of my professor's cavernous voice. Who knew I couldn't survive 50 minutes of argumentation. Damn Socrates.