Earlier this evening, I was at Espresso Royale on Comm (like I always am), sitting in the back without buying anything, leeching off the wireless and looking somewhat grouchy with the amount of work that sat before me. I've been kind of slacking on laundry, so I've recently been spotted in skinny jeans that belong(ed) to a Canadian gal who was once rather close to me. If you've seen me in these, you've noticed two things: one, they're too tight for me (duh, girl jeans) and two, they're covered in curse words. Why this is so, and why I own them is quite another story, as is the girl who gave them to me. All you need to know is it's hard to multitask when I'm wearing them, so I was slouching and sprawled out, and probably frightening employees who were trying to clean up the cafe.

No, that isn't entirely true. I probably looked pleasant, but I had certainly made myself comfortable. I was finishing up some neuro work and trying to shuttle out the answers to the most recent physics assignment, which I had just completed after a several hour ordeal that involved writing out two derivations on my left hand for portability purposes. Then, there was a camera's flash and the girl sitting in front of me took a picture of my half of ERC before sitting back down with a friend. Twenty minutes later, she walked up to me and made one of those "I don't know you, but you should look up so I don't feel weird" noises.

"Hi, I'm sure you've noticed that I've been drawing you this last while." She was sitting, like, twenty feet away. I can barely read what I'm typing right now. No, I couldn't tell.

"Oh! No! I haven't, but that's great!"

"Oh, you didn't notice. . .well, that makes this a little more awkward."

She then flipped around a charcoal drawing of ERC, with just me sitting at my computer.

"I don't usually draw people. But I was feeling adventurous. You looked kind of overwhelmed with your work."

"Yes, well, you got that right on. You're a great artist, the picture's really good."

"Thanks, I'm gonna go out back and spray paint it now."

I'm not sure what spray painting would do to it. I looked really, really silly in it. My face was kind of egg-shaped, which isn't an insult to her work, I think I'm just generally egg-faced and hate coming to terms with that. But, dear friends, there's a more important issue at hand than the ridiculousness of my image.

I'm not really going to try to explain why I like moments like these, so this might have to suffice just as a story I wanted to share with you all, sans my opinion on it all. But that's a cop-out, and I hate cop-outs, so let's talk about it. I prefer to share stories rather than to explain them, because I want you to decide. So we'll keep my commentary to a minimum.

I want to be able to do things like what this girl did. I want to approach people for lesser reasons (esp. since I can't draw, and it would be creepy to say "hey, you probably haven't noticed, but I've been thinking about you") and start conversations. I want everyone to do this. Fuck assumption, awkwardness, whatever it is that keeps you from asking someone if you can sit with them and talk. That's not too much, is it? No.

See you there.

I don't really talk much about where I go on Saturdays. There isn't really any specific reason to keep it quiet, but it's not like anyone's really keeping track of me and wants to know where I disappear to, especially when they're probably still sleeping by the time I'm about to leave. Well, for the books, I go to Mass General Hospital, where I spend the afternoon playing with the inpatients on Ellison 18, ages 6-20. But this story isn't about that. My shift there this morning would be of no interest; I watched "Twilight" with a coworker for the majority of the day. Indulgent, certainly.

MGH always gives me a meal ticket for the end of my shift, so I can go to Coffee Central or Eat Street Cafe (the only two places open on the weekend) where I get enough food/caffeine to keep me from passing out while I bike home. This week's special drink was called "Jamaican Me Crazy" iced coffee, because no one wants to admit that there's very little variation within the iced coffee world, ergo the names get less and less to do with anything edible, and that somehow spikes interest. Shit, it worked on me. I get my iced coffee, a bagel and a muffin (approx. 5,000 calories) and sit outside the Fruit Street entrance, where I always go to sit.

This couple standing next to me asks if I had a light, and then comments on all the sparrows gathering around me as I tossed bits of my bagel at them. I want to make the joke I always think of: "yeah, they only hang around because I feed them. Kind of like my real friends," but I just smile and sip my Crazy iced coffee. Whatever. I'm done with the bagel and I start on the muffin.

Some guy walking back toward the entrance in a hospital gown asks for a cigarette from the couple next to me, showing his empty pack and going on about how his friend was about to swing by with a refill. Sparrows are all around me, a few even started picking at crumbs around my feet.

Poor bastard, I overhear him telling the couple a little too much information. He had cut his hand and gotten a staph infection, and had found out that morning he had to stay another four weeks instead of going home that day like he expected. Something was wrong with the woman he was talking too, but I don't think she revealed as much. I've never had to stay in a hospital for more than a few hours, but I never thought doing so seemed that bad if you weren't in critical condition. For the kids in Pediatrics, we give them food, books, crafts, movies and video games, the things they would have at home. My job there is to distract them as much as possible from the fact that they're even IN the hospital, and that's not so hard with some of the cases. One month in to my time at MGH and I realized how old it all must get, and when we're done playing they go back to their empty rooms, pull down a curtain and turn on the television. It always goes that way, it seems. Three weeks ago, I had to put on a surgical mask, gloves and a full gown just to go near a girl who looked about my age. I bet you didn't need convincing that it sucks to stay in the hospital, but that's enough if you ask me. In-and-out for stitches or a broken arm or whatever is one thing, but four weeks, man-welcome to your new home.

So back to this guy. He's walking back to the entrance now that he's done with his cigarette, promising this woman that he'll pray for her health, and that he just lost his father and his mother just underwent surgery and something about how he couldn't have gotten by without prayer. It's obviously saddening to hear all of this, but he's kind of telling it as he's walking away, so it looks a bit silly as he reveals tons of information as a means of ending (?) the conversation. "Hey, life is what it is," he says. What it is, what it is, what it is, I think. Yeah, I guess.

The couple leaves, and I'm left with my sparrows. I'm done eating but they hang around, and I pretend they're doing it because they like me. I'm buzzed on caffeine and it's a beautiful autumn day, and I remember what they told me in EMT class: "People get sick, people die. You can't save everyone." Life's pretty fucking fragile, I think to myself, and I start crying.

I only have a few moments like this a year, and they usually pull me out of the times when I'm so blinded by academia that I find emotional attachment to be stupidly wasteful. The days when I walk down Comm. ave and listen in on conversations, wondering why people can't talk about meaningful things, those days are always the worst. I'm not hateful or jealous, I even think I'm being as stupid as everyone else for listening in and thinking about whatever they're talking about. But no one's stupid, and nothing's unimportant, and nothing should go without the love you put in to whatever you think you really do care about. Because it's all the same, really.