Danny Andrews

I have a serious problem. When I think I’m alone, I talk to myself. Not only talk, but I yell, flail my arms, make noises and even use different voices. You’ve probably seen me on campus. I’m the guy who walks blindly into people, trees and parked cars because I’m in such deep thought, I lose track of where I am. I’m the guy who enters the ladies’ restroom and doesn’t figure it out until he’s washing his hands. I’m the guy you avoid by crossing the street to walk on the other sidewalk.

I’ve been doing this for as long as I can remember. When I was young, my parents said it was just a phase, like an imaginary friend, I would eventually grow out of it. I never did. It actually got worse. As a kid, when I would turn a corner to see people there, my voice would die off. Nowadays, when I see people, it scares me and I shout the first thing that pops into my mind. It’s not just scary, it’s almost dangerous.

In fact, I did endanger myself and others. Last week, I was lost in contemplation about which band my friend was going to go see. I had it down to “Wolf Parade” and “Wolfmother,” one of whom is metal and the other is indie rock, but I couldn’t remember which was which. This controlled my mind as I began crossing the street.

Now imagine yourself as a pretty, blond girl in a silver Grand Am. You’re cruising along Medary Avenue listening to your favorite Black Eyed Peas song and putting on your strawberry lip gloss. You glance down from your rearview mirror to see a twitchy, corduroy-clad young man blindly step out in front of you. He doesn’t even begin to look up until the tires begin screeching against the asphalt. As you pump the brake, you pray that this doesn’t make your insurance premium go up. The kid’s terror-filled eyes finally reach yours and he screams out what may be his dying words. “WOLFMOTHER’S METAL!”

Your car skids to a halt inches away from erasing the kid’s shins from existence. Clutching his satchel to his side, he stares at you, grins sheepishly and runs off. You spend the rest of your day debating whether or not you could have done the gene pool a favor and hit the gas instead.

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