My name is Tara and I’m halfway through college. I drink on occasion, and I never mind a good party. I’m an average student with an average family life and an average, used car with which I go to an average job. I have average friends (no insult intended) and we together participate in a pretty average college experience. There is nothing incredibly remarkable about me, frankly. I like to travel (much to the chagrin of my car, I can imagine) and I like animals. Not PETA-go-to-jail-for-them like; more like I-can’t-wait-to-get-my-own-place-so-I-can-get-one kind of like.
Though I don’t like animals enough not to freak out when one of the larger types is staring into my face from about six inches away.
After that incident, it’s fair that I was a little paranoid. It was as if I was seeing the mysterious jungle cat everywhere I looked; it felt as if it was watching me everywhere I went. It was as if I had my own (deadly) kitty stalker.
During classes, I could swear that the feline face would peek in through the window—there! In the corner of my eye!—but the moment I turned to the window there was nothing but the red splendor of autumn.
Eventually my paranoia was noticed by one of my friends.
“You’ve been acting really weird lately,” one such friend, Ashley, said one lunchtime as I sat down at our usual table.
“Have you been feeling well?” she asked anxiously.
0 comments:
Post a Comment