The strange kid in class.

No, we're not talking about me (even though last week in one of my classes my leg fell asleep and when I stood up I immediately fell on the floor). A word of warning to the easily offended: I am about to divulge to you my impressions of this poor lad as I've seen him so far. Some of the things I say will not be pleasing to the senses, and at times they will be tinged with a noticeable amount of unabashed antipathy. Were I a better writer (or, arguably, a better person) I would be able to eliminate these brash sentiments completely from my prose. However, I'm not, nor do I plan on becomming any better than I already am (think how hard that would be for me anyway!) so please, if you prefer not to read the only slightly less than objective observations I am about to make, please feel free to scan down a post and read my feelings on my brother turning seventeen and how this effects me (a subjective post if I've ever written one!)

Now, for those of you with stronger dispositions than those who are currently reading about my little brother's birthday, I am about to impart to you not a tale, but rather a series of random observations about a gentleman who is in my Harry Potter class. If you would instead prefer to read a story with a nice, easy to follow narrative, please accept my invitation to put this post out of your mind and scan down two posts to read about the charming circumstances under which I made myself a new dwarven friend.

For the rest of you who are neither reading about my regrets in light of my brother's entering into a world when nothing is impossible nor about poor little Level-Seven Peter, I consider it only appropriate that you now discover why I am devoting an entire post to this one person who I have never met personally but have observed from distances as close as two feet. The fellow's name is D---- V--- (name hidden to protect the innocent, namely myself, in the miraculous event that he should stumble across this lowly, petty post on my lowly, petty blog), and he is quite arguably the most eccentric member of our species that I have ever encountered.

D---- V--- looks normal enough on first glance -- picture a younger, more gaunt-faced Rick Moranis with trendier glasses. Upon closer examination, however, you notice that several things are completely amiss with Mr. V---. His fingernails are beautiful, or at least they would be were they the fingernails of a woman; they are long -- and I say this with the assumption that you know how I am known to let my nails get fairly long -- but these nails... my God. I don't know that I've ever seen such nails on a black man, a homeless person, or a woman.

When he walks into class each afternoon, he immediately speaks his mind on a certain subject. Loudly.

Monday: "My GAWD these desks are poorly arranged today!"
Wednesday: "My GAWD it is always so terribly quiet in here! It's like we're a bunch of literature majors or something!"

After making these incendiary proclamiations, D---- will sit down, usually in the front (if there is a front -- there wasn't on Monday because the desks really were poorly arranged) and begin talking to the nearest girl. Whether he only talks to girls on purpose or as a result of the fact that there are only about five other guys in the class, I cannot say, but that is not the creepy part. After asking their name followed by a series of random questions ("Wendy, If you could be any superhero, who would you be and why?" "What is your favorite Italian dish, Wendy?" "Is Wendy your real name, or is it a pen name that sounded a bit better than your real name?"), he quits the interrogation and waits patiently for the class to begin (and it almost immediately does because he usually gets there late and the teacher ends up waiting for him to finish up investigations so that she (our normal professor is on a brief excursion at the moment) can start the class). As the class begins, he writes in his notebook the name of the girl he spoke to as well as the name of the girl sitting next to him if he can see her name written in her notebook, monogrammed on her backpack, or anywhere else halfway inconspicuous.

After this, D----'s actions become a bit more unpredictable. Today, for example, D---- was wearing flip flops, and as our surrogate professor (the wife of our normal professor) discussed the plan for today's class, our hero removed his right flip flop, propped his foot on top of his left knee, and began to pick at something on one of his toes. At this point I couldn't help but stare in disbelief. Neither could our poor substitute professor. Fortunately, he eventually quit the habit and returned his bare, freshly picked foot to the floor.

This for me answered the long-standing question of why we can't have food or drink in room 017 in the English/Counseling Services building. In fact, it put it out of my mind completely.