February 8, 2002

olfactory alarm clock

Whenever I go to the library to work on my laptop, there is always the same guy sitting in the same cube by the window.

The fellow sits with amazing posture and has dark, bushy eyebrows that communicate an inner sternness. He is spindly but solid-looking, with greasy hair and a bony chin that makes me want to break his jaw. I’ve never caught a glimpse of what he’s working on, but I’m sure it is of dire importance. Taxes, probably.

His deodorant fails every day at 11:30, and the biting stench tells me it’s almost time to head off to philosophy class.