I’m sitting in the library, procrastinating on my research paper. The one that is due in five days. The one I started today. So benefit you will from my undulating procrastination.

I went out last night. I wasn’t going to. I stayed in, playing Life with my roommates, until some friends called and said they were downtown. Sure, I can straighten my hair, put on my jeans with the pretty pockets and pretend to not hate most of the same ole drunken crowd for another night.

When the night ended, my guy friends caught a ride from a girlfriend and I walked to the bus alone, tripping and falling on uneven pavement. I quite possibly broke a toe. The verdict isn’t in yet. But that’s when it starts. The Greenville trash is everywhere and they make their presence known by leaning into your ear, or calling after you, “whatchu doing tonight, girl?” These pathetic, yet innocuous “ay girl” calls fall on death ears when you’re with a group of people, but not when you’re alone. Walking alone through a maze of micro mini skirted girls and popped collared fratties for some reason makes you the target of every drunk idiot’s attention.

When with the girls, we have our witty comebacks, our emasculating insults that make drunks dissipate, but I can’t say these things when I’m alone; it’s probably not a safe idea. Instead, I roll my eyes, furrow my brow and quickly walk away. That five minute walk up the hill alone, through the tumultuous flood of fake I.D. carrying bastards may be the longest part of the night.

Once on the bus, free from the unwelcome ass slaps and “cat calls,” I realize just how much I really do hate most people here. I have great friends, I’ve met fantastic people, but in three in a half years, it hasn’t been many. Greenville puts out this facade that it wants to be more than it really is. The guys who sport daddy’s credit card think they’re God’s gift to women and are free to demoralize anyone because “we’re asking for it.” The girls pretend they’re rich and that stupidity makes them attractive. I am a bitch and I don’t pretend to be anything less.

I got on the bus and only one person followed me onto it. He sat across from me, both of us on our phones. I zoned out, until he leaned over and said, “Can I ask you a question?” “Yeah, sure.” “What if someone you hadn’t talked to in a long time…well ok, my ex, she texted me tonight saying, ‘I’m worried about you’re well-being.’ What would you think about that?”

“Does she have a reason to be worried about your well-being? How would she know about it? Stalking you on Facebook, eh? Either way, that’s just random, but bitches are crazy.”

“I have no idea, but I don’t know what to think of it. I haven’t responded.”

“I mean, I wouldn’t. Girls are weird and crazy. There’s clearly an ulterior motive there.”

We got off the bus and he asked me what my name was. He told me his name was Paul.

“So, you’re not crazy,” he asked.

I thought about how I had just spent the week not really eating and doing slightly crazy things and how that one time Baseball Player seemed like he wouldn’t give back my cheesehead and I freaked out (I’ll tell that funny story next). “No, I’m not.”

“Really? That’s awesome and rare.” He started laughing and saying the things over I said about girls being crazy and we began parting ways. He yelled after me, “_____, that’s a cool name by the way.” Thanks.

They’re not all disgusting, stupid and cocky, but he just may not have been sucked in by Greenville’s never failing gravitational pull towards douchebaggery yet. It’s almost inevitable.