Maybe He lied.

You're damp and bored in a cold room that has a window open to battle the heater which blasts full blast whenever the temperature around its thermostat dips below a crisp 82 degrees, Fahr. You are wearing sweat pants what you go from your girlfriend who took them from her half step brother and they are great and they are damp and you'd like to take them off but the underwear under there is more embarrasing then just sitting around a public place in your underwear: they're bikinis.

You're also wearing a shirt whichh is dry and which you got fro free from when the sports people toured campuses and stopped at yours and you ran through this really gay, I mean lame-o suprem-o obstacle course and they gave you a hat for it and a shirt, and then you got in trouble with your boss because you were supposed to be selling burgers and franks to all the college kids who had come out onto their campus hill to watch the free rock and roll concert, which the first year you went to it had Pearl jam before they got famous but now just has locl bands so people don;t drive from allover like nebraska and South Dakota, the degenerates. It's dry because of the umbrella you clutched tightly and whitely as you scampered hither and thither about campus. Of course this campus is five thousand miles away from that one which is far enough that you wouldn't even drive it just to see Pearl Jam for free, or even a band you liked , for that matter.

Your socks are wet, too, but because your are such an idiot and have no concept of the passing of tiome, you've come prepared, since you thought you'd have time to go to the gym and pretend to workout between the time when you have to sit in this cold damp room with the open window and the over achieving heater and the time when it's time to attend class and talk about Faulkner and what a motherfucking genius he was, is, and always will be: you've got a change of sock, underwear, and a t-shirt. This t-shirt you also got fro free for being on hand to seel haot dogs and hamburgers to all the impressionable young freshmen on that far away campus about a thousand hundred million years ago. It didn;t rain this much then, there, then.

You've been on this camus for a few hours, a few months, and it has never rained this much, although todsay you feel like it has always rained this much. All those years ago when it rained so much that the earth was inundated to the max you are sure folks got used to it and even came to expect it, depend on it, used to get the local paper or tune into the weather channel just say to the wife at breakfast over kippers: Looks like another grrrrrrrreat day of rain, darlin! But now, it's much like Hell, in that you wonder how a person couldn't get used to the torment after awhile, say, half an eternity, and the torment wouldn't be a torment anymore, but after only what seems to be a quarter of an eternity of rain you know you will nevcer get used to it, you will always hate it, you have lived three the next three-quarters of the eternity in effigy, the effigy being each individual bastard rain drop that plinks on the sidewalk.

And you're hungry. You're wallet had twnety dollars in it one time last week and you're fairly certain you did nothing with it, but it was gone earlier when you looked, so you went out into the rain and discovered the ATM right on the limits of your willingness to walk about in the rain, with the resterauntsa right on the otherside. Now you have twenty dollars and a left-over candy cane from the christmas party, one in your wallet and one in your stomach. There was the student cafeteria of course, but you were already pissed off at the way people can't seem to realize that their umbrellas take up more space then their bodies so they should be wary of one another accordingly, and you certainly weren't going to navigate the mosh pit where the food was dispensed, doubly so since your sense of duty which waxes and wanes had just waxed and you chosen that sortie to also make photocopies of a lame-ass poem for your creative writing class, and you didn't want the already endampened pages to become as well crushed and mangled.

Last night you had a disturbing dream, and you don't want to talk about it, but it's your only solace as you punch buttons on a keypad in some sort of lame-ass attempt to motivate your self into some kind of activity. It's not working.