Love In The Elevator?

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C’mon!

I don’t think this elevator could be any slower, I mean gosh man. A minute of waiting equals to an hour in my mind, especially when I really really need to be somewhere. It’s not just the elevator in the science building either, it’s the one in the humanities building, the student center, the computer building, the library---slow elevators are everywhere.

Can I blame that on my university being an HBCU and thus not having the funds to build efficiently fast elevators? Or that we’re a tiny bit reminiscent of the 1950’s with those weird air ventilation thingies that they (whoever they is) still have sprouting out of the ceiling like an ugly alien baby?

Slow elevators will be the death of me.

Or my psyche, but honestly if you’re psyche is gone and you’re certifiably crazy then you are sorta kinda dead---brain dead that is.

Imagine me right now if you will slightly foaming at the mouth (I kid) with this dazed expression on my face and my arms crossed tightly against my little girls and my right foot tapping impatiently.  There’s a scent of dirty water and bleach mixed together that doesn’t smell pleasant in the least, it’s like they’re fighting together and the dirty water is like ‘bish don’t kill my vibe’ and it’s going all kung foo on the bleach. It’s winning. No…no…it has won. Indefinitely. I wrinkle my nose at the smell and focus on my warped image reflected from the metal surface of the elevator doors. There’s a black girl, or maybe she’s a woman depending on who see’s but in reality all I see is a girl who doesn’t look a day over 18 (though she’s 22) clad in a tight grey graphic tee (because she’s completely boss like that) a pair of grey sweats (because today is not the day) flat sneakers (because they’re comfy) and an afro puff that reaches proudly to the high heavens (because she imagines that she’s totally afro-centric and in tune with who she is).

Then there’s the expression on her face…or my face because I have this strange fondness of referring to myself in the third person----it’s gotten worse. My mouth moves slowly to this mindless song that I can’t get rid of, probably something crappy like a Future song…Bugatti maybe. Eyes? Yep still glazed. Foot? It’s no longer one foot, but two and now I’m shuffling them from side to side doing this bouncy dance while nodding my head to Bugatti and critically analyzing how Future got a deal so easily. Dude….deep voice much? He must eat cigarettes for breakfast.

Oooh ooooh and It’s hot too! It’s like somewhere between the mid 90’s and early hundreds outside and today of all days the a/c in the science building doesn’t want to cooperate. So correction: me nodding my head, moving my lips, arms crossed, bouncing and shuffling from side to side and sweating like a pig. What’s up with that expression anyway? How do pigs sweat exactly?

The wall behind me is brilliant white, it’s too sterile and it’s embossed which makes it worse. Sunlight drifting in from outside and the students passing through the hallway is the only form of life I’ve seen within the past minute, two minutes? Not long right? Yeah it wouldn’t be so long if I wasn’t so dramatic.

I digress.

The digital number above the elevator glares in a brilliant red four. That’s good, it’s progress since it was on three for like a minute. The longest minute everrrrrrrrrr.

I have somewhere to be! I’ve yet to make my schedule for next semester and if I don’t do it today then I am screwed because this is the last day of class and I have a final in what an hour? No I have two finals…or is that three?

“Ugh,” I wipe my cheek in exasperation and because I swear I can see fluid from my brain leaking through my scalp and sliding down the right side of my face.

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