Last night during our fifteen-minute break from reading long, boring French essays, I sat in the classroom with a group of four grad students. They all know each other from previous classes and therefore congregate together and look cool while the rest of us (read: me) who don't know anyone else sit there begging for attention with our sad little eyes and pouty expressions that scream, "TALK TO ME! I'm nice and I can be funny and not entirely depressing!"
The focus of their conversation was shingles, since our professor had them on his arm and promised us a longer break than usual because he "might just go lay down in the office and die." One student said that she was impressed that he made it to class, and the other three nodded their heads in agreement. Yes, our professor was a brave, brave man for persevering and making it through the pain (with a little help from Professor Vicodin).
Then one of them said, “What is shingles?”
“It’s actually a form of the Herpes virus…you get it when you have chicken pox and it can outbreak later in life.”
My four classmates stared at me and there was more silence.
Then they all turned around and started talking about the Aldo Outlet.
Tyler: 0. Life: 79,302.