#$howispentmysummervacation

"It will. If you don't stop writing that is. You have a style all your own. It's like you're just telling a story around a fire one night. And you're story is good. I mean, really good. It's well written. It's introspective. Makes you question some things. And it's original. It's a new idea."

"Is that why there's red ink all over it?" I said, with a half-smirk. I was making fun of her needless habit of editing every single piece of creative fiction that passed before her. I wasn't sure, but if she stuck with her habits, she could go on to being one of the best editors out there. And I didn't know shit about the actual world of writing, but I knew editors were important.

"Shush. It's just grammatical and spelling errors." She crossed her arms in front of her, and sat forward, resting them on her desk. "Make me a promise?"

I looked at her, this time with my own confusion. "What?"

"Don't stop. And if you ever get anywhere with this, put me in your thank dedication." She cracked a smile at me. Her teeth were extremely white, contrasting against her darker complexion. I wondered for a second how often she bleached her teeth.

"I won't. I don't think I could, even if I wanted to." I meant that. From the moment I was able to write, it never stopped. It's why I did so poorly in high school. I would spend my classes writing shitty high school emo poetry. Every night before bed, I would journal. There were always snippets of story ideas all over my notebooks, and pretty much anything else I could write on. "And if I ever a thank you page, you'll be on the list. You don't need to ask for that. I really would thank you."

"For what?" She asked with curiosity.

"I don't know. Kind words? Support. You're one of the few who didn't make me completely hate this place." I shrugged. That's all I had. Hopefully, it was enough. My writing never came through in how I spoke. I always tripped and stumbled over my words. Or said inappropriate things. Or just totally missed out on normal social cues.

"I'll take it. Good luck, Chris. Keep in touch, please." she said. I hated hearing the disappointment in her voice, but I was doing this for me. I hated this place. I hated the environment. I hated the crowds. The people. All it did was set off my anxiety issues, and I'm beyond fucking tired of having panic attacks hidden in some bathroom, hoping no one comes in to hear me cry and sob until I can catch my breath and breathe again.

"Yeah, you too," I said, standing up and grabbing my backpack. I looked up and saw the time. "Shit, I gotta go. I'm going to miss the bus." I took off, hurriedly out into the hallway, where a crowd of other students was pushing through. It was just past noon. Lunch hour. Fuck. The fastest way to the bus stop was through the cafeteria.

And the cafeteria was packed with a massive crowd of hungry kids grabbing something quick before heading off to the next hour or so of boredom and sleeping in class. Luckily, I'm very small. I'm only 5'7" and I weight 117 lbs, if I'm soaking wet. I could slip through crowds pretty easily. And that's what I intended to do here.

I didn't really know anybody at the UW, other than my professor's and their aides. But, I was well known. Mainly because of how I looked, and the fact that almost ninety percent of anything that came out of my mouth was pure unfiltered sarcasm. It was a coping skill, keeping people from breaking through my shell.

And has I pushed through the crowd, I swear I heard someone shout my name behind me. I turned my head for one second. One simple second, and that's all it took for me to collide into someone, knocking their books and an apple to the floor. I guess I was missing the book. I never did find out who was calling for me, or if anyone actually was.

There was always someone here, but it was rarely busy. Today was no different. A man sat alone by himself, watching a dusty and old TV. It was little weird to see someone watching Jeopardy! with no sound. To each their own, I guess. At one of the tables, a small group of what looked like frat guys sat, drinking from a pitcher. I could only assume they were the ones playing some kind of that short-lived 'crunk rap' song. You know what I mean. The stuff Lil Jon made. No one else would play that kind of garbage on a Tuesday evening. Finally, a guy was playing one of the pinball machines while a tiny bird-like girl stood next to him and watched intently.

The bartender came up to Addison and I. He was maybe late 30's, early 40's. But like, really well taken care of. He put both hands on the bar as he spoke with a voice of pure gravel and grit.

"What'll it be?"

"Just a Pabst," Addison said politely.

"High Life,"

He nodded and went off to grab the two beers. I threw a twenty on the bar.

"So it really doesn't freak you out?" Addison asked, as the bartender sat a can in front of her and a glass bottle in front of me.

"What?" I said, taking a drink from the cold beer. It tasted to good, and that meant if I continued drinking, I would end the night very very drunk. And I couldn't do that.

"The mortician thing." She turned the can around a little bit, just fidgetting.

"Not at all. It interests me. I've never met someone who wanted to go into the funeral sciences. I mean, look at me. I work hard to get that freshly dead corpse look. I gotta know though, how does one decide on that for their future?" I scanned the bar. One of the frat boys was getting another pitcher. The couple in back had switched spots, with the girl playing now.

"I don't know. I guess I've always just been drawn to death," she laughed loudly. The man watching the silent TV gave us a look.

"What do you mean? Like you want to die or just death in general?"

"I mean, death is something we all go through. So why not make it part of your life? Maybe this way, when my time is up, I'll be ready for it."

"You say it like that, it sounds like you're going to the punch death right in the face. I mean, I totally support violence on the Grim Reaper."

Addison laughed, causing the man to look again, a minor look of irritation on his face. Four years ago, I would have started something with him. Now, the only option I was comfortable with was ignoring it.

"So what about you? What are you in for?" She asked, taking a drink out of her can.

"Nothing anymore. I officially ended my college career today. I'm a drop out. But I was in as an English major, with a focus on creative writing." I said.

"How come you dropped it? If it's not a sore spot, I mean." There was genuine curiosity in those eyes.

"No, it's all good. I just didn't want to be there anymore. I don't like people all that much, and being surrounded by strangers all the time isn't that good for my mental state. Plus, I fucking hated it there. The whole experience was anxiety inducing and I've just had enough," I said, shrugging, trying to make it sound like nothing major. It wasn't just because I didn't want to be there anymore. I couldn't be there anymore. "Did I mention I really disliked it?"

"But then why go at all? Seems kind of pointless."

-467 "A little bruised never hurt anything." "I really wish you'd reconsider this, Chris," Erin said as she looked at me from across the desk. She was my English professor's aide. I had just told her I was done. I was dropping out. This wasn't the life for me, and I no longer had the will to try and make it work. "I really think you're going to regret it."

"There's nothing to reconsider. This just isn't the path for me." I said quietly. Erin had for some reason taken me under her wing during my short time at the UW-Milwaukee. I was quiet to a fault, but Erin didn't let it be. She would always say hello and always try to have a conversation with me. That's just who she was. She was a rainbow for the alternative kids. My guess is that at one point in her life, she was part of the loser's club.

She looked at me with her big brown eyes. It looked like she was reading some unknown words on my face. In front of her, on the desk, sat a small stack of papers, paper clipped together. She picked it up.

"I've read this," she said, showing me the short story I had written earlier in the month. "It's really good. It's original, it's interesting, and you have a style all your own. You don't want to pursue this?"

I didn't know what to say, so I said nothing. I didn't think the story was all that good. It was a confusing mess about a guy who ends up falling in love with one of his own hallucinations. I liked the idea, but my execution was awful, in my opinion. We are our worst critics.

"You could go somewhere with this," she flipped through the pages. I could see red pen marks all over it, marking spelling errors and broken grammar.

"I don't need a degree to write, Erin. This place just isn't for me. It wasn't for me when I did the two semesters in Waukesha, and it isn't for me here in Milwaukee. I didn't even want to do this in the first place." I said, trying to make her see my side, but she wouldn't. And I knew that. Nobody really would, unless they got a taste of the anxiety and mental health issues.

I wasn't always like this. At one point, I was loud and obnoxious. I was a major extrovert, living life like I was immortal. Things happen and people change, and now I'm the exact opposite. I spend most of my time alone. I don't mind it really. I've grown to maybe even like my isolation.

"No. You're right, you don't. But it couldn't hurt either," Erin sighed, putting my story back on the desk. I could see its title, 'Nothing's Real That Matters,' and thought how stupid of a title it was. It was circled in red ink that I sure as hell didn't put there.

"Erin, I appreciate it but..."

"I'm not going to talk you out of this, am I?" She interrupted me and finished my sentence with a question. A question that was exactly what I was going to say.

"No. Nobody is. I'm done."

She sighed again, studying me with those doe eyes. A few loss strands of her blonde hair, fell out of her ponytail and into her face. She made no effort to push them away. Finally, she leaned back in her chair and put her arms up. She wouldn't understand, but she wasn't going to try and change my mind anymore. She had reached her resignation.

"Can I keep this?" She asked, pointing to the packet of papers on the desk. I nodded at her. It wasn't like it was the only copy. "Thanks. I'm keeping this for the day you end up famous for this kind of stuff."