I sat in a plastic chair on the far edge of the oval[ish] table, practically putting myself in the corner of the giant commons area. People eventually began to fill up my table, dragging with them unused chairs from nearby places.
Over the next five minutes, the entire area was packed to the rafters with hormone-ridden high schoolers, trying to find the place that they belonged to, like some weird human jigsaw puzzle.
By this point in time, my table had accumulated quite a spectrum of people, packing in shoulder to shoulder to seat themselves at the wooden-slab supporter of our midday meal. When the table seemed about ready to burst outwards with adolescents, one more guy came to the table to seat himself with people he recognized. Chairs were scarce, and he desperately began his quest to attain a seating device.
Glancing around the commons area, the newcomer was unable to find a single seat in the Where's-Waldo-esque setting. Finally, his eyes landed upon not one, but two chairs that technically were not being used.
Logically speaking, one person sits in one chair. Or, some people share chairs, which is fine. Do what you want. But the carefully balanced system of sense-making comes crashing down into a burning pile of axioms when one person uses three chairs.
When occasion merits, I take a long hard look around me. Hundreds of intelligent individuals, hurrying to their places to meet other sentient beings, all with their own unique issues and concerns. Throughout my entire existence, I will only get to hear about a microscopic portion of a fragment of the troubles of the people of this planet. So many different characters I'll never be introduced to, such a large amount of ingenuity I'll never get to know.
One of the people I would partially get to know in my life was perched ten feet away from me.
Before approaching the shadowy figure, the chairless person took a good long look at his destination. Three chairs were stacked upon each other, seemingly not in use if it wasn't for the single person precariously sitting on top of them.
The person was probably right around six feet tall. His flesh was literally whiter than sour cream, as the Weird Al parody goes. He wore this constant glare that drilled straight through your face and out the other side of your skull. Graphic tee, blue jeans, generic sneakers, and then a black winter coat that reached down past his knees.
Despite his appearance, what set him apart was his posture.
If you're going to use three chairs, at least sit in them normally.
Somehow this individual was able to balance himself on the balls of his feet on the top of the backrest of the top chair.
This calls for a poorly done SketchBook Express illustration.
The brave newcomer decided to approach this formidable individual. In order to not appear rude, he opened his plea with a conversation, which he later relayed to our table.
"Hey there, friend!"
A dark and deadly stare into his soul was his only reply.
"How's it going today?"
After continuing his stare for the next full minute, he slowly replied in a deep voice, similar to the pitch and quality of a frog with strep throat.
"I am sitting on these three chairs whilst wearing my black coat in the middle of the commons on the night of a waxing crescent. So, not very well."
Clearly, some form of code was being sent out from his setup.
In a dazed response, the chair seeker cautiously replied, "Oh. I'm... sorry. For your loss?"
The flare in his nostrils and increased intensity of his scowl was the only response that was needed.
Now even more desperate to vacate the area, the chair seeker quickly kept going.
"Is it ok if I borrow one of your chairs? I don't have a place to sit, and it doesn't look like there are anymore."
The bird dude's face scrunched up, like he just caught a face full of skunk scent.
The chair seeker, that brave soul, dared continue in the face of imminent doom.
"You don't want to talk to me, do you."
"Not particularly, no."
Utterly dejected and terrified, the chair seeker returned to our table, his labors fruitless. After telling us his conversation, we all looked up at the bird dude.
Though there were fifteen of us at the table, his malicious glare pierced each and every one us. Never before have I felt an outer presence invading my inner most thoughts.
The scariest part?
I don't think it left.
Over the next five minutes, the entire area was packed to the rafters with hormone-ridden high schoolers, trying to find the place that they belonged to, like some weird human jigsaw puzzle.
By this point in time, my table had accumulated quite a spectrum of people, packing in shoulder to shoulder to seat themselves at the wooden-slab supporter of our midday meal. When the table seemed about ready to burst outwards with adolescents, one more guy came to the table to seat himself with people he recognized. Chairs were scarce, and he desperately began his quest to attain a seating device.
Glancing around the commons area, the newcomer was unable to find a single seat in the Where's-Waldo-esque setting. Finally, his eyes landed upon not one, but two chairs that technically were not being used.
Logically speaking, one person sits in one chair. Or, some people share chairs, which is fine. Do what you want. But the carefully balanced system of sense-making comes crashing down into a burning pile of axioms when one person uses three chairs.
When occasion merits, I take a long hard look around me. Hundreds of intelligent individuals, hurrying to their places to meet other sentient beings, all with their own unique issues and concerns. Throughout my entire existence, I will only get to hear about a microscopic portion of a fragment of the troubles of the people of this planet. So many different characters I'll never be introduced to, such a large amount of ingenuity I'll never get to know.
One of the people I would partially get to know in my life was perched ten feet away from me.
Before approaching the shadowy figure, the chairless person took a good long look at his destination. Three chairs were stacked upon each other, seemingly not in use if it wasn't for the single person precariously sitting on top of them.
The person was probably right around six feet tall. His flesh was literally whiter than sour cream, as the Weird Al parody goes. He wore this constant glare that drilled straight through your face and out the other side of your skull. Graphic tee, blue jeans, generic sneakers, and then a black winter coat that reached down past his knees.
Despite his appearance, what set him apart was his posture.
If you're going to use three chairs, at least sit in them normally.
Somehow this individual was able to balance himself on the balls of his feet on the top of the backrest of the top chair.
This calls for a poorly done SketchBook Express illustration.
The brave newcomer decided to approach this formidable individual. In order to not appear rude, he opened his plea with a conversation, which he later relayed to our table.
"Hey there, friend!"
A dark and deadly stare into his soul was his only reply.
"How's it going today?"
After continuing his stare for the next full minute, he slowly replied in a deep voice, similar to the pitch and quality of a frog with strep throat.
"I am sitting on these three chairs whilst wearing my black coat in the middle of the commons on the night of a waxing crescent. So, not very well."
Clearly, some form of code was being sent out from his setup.
In a dazed response, the chair seeker cautiously replied, "Oh. I'm... sorry. For your loss?"
The flare in his nostrils and increased intensity of his scowl was the only response that was needed.
Now even more desperate to vacate the area, the chair seeker quickly kept going.
"Is it ok if I borrow one of your chairs? I don't have a place to sit, and it doesn't look like there are anymore."
The bird dude's face scrunched up, like he just caught a face full of skunk scent.
The chair seeker, that brave soul, dared continue in the face of imminent doom.
"You don't want to talk to me, do you."
"Not particularly, no."
Utterly dejected and terrified, the chair seeker returned to our table, his labors fruitless. After telling us his conversation, we all looked up at the bird dude.
Though there were fifteen of us at the table, his malicious glare pierced each and every one us. Never before have I felt an outer presence invading my inner most thoughts.
The scariest part?
I don't think it left.
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