Humphrey House Lounge

The first snow fell which meant it was time for stories. We sat around in a circle and then contemplated what's right. We threw our scraps of paper and put them in the pig. The pig was full of secrets, desires, and roommate drama. My roommate was also in this class. Di red poem after poem and reanalyze then. Then we wrote our own homes. We were not poets, we were gymnasts and  the international students and acrobats and guitar players in tutors. Di made us into poets. 

Poem after poem, week after week. We wrote our destinies, the stories of our lives. Di empowered us with her bad attitude in her crude language, allowing us to be our authentic selves.

One day, the pig went around the room per usual and I read one aloud that stuck with me. “I walked in on my roomate giving head last night and I had to sleep on the second floor trowbridge lounge.” 

All class period, I was envisioning a calendar and trying to line up the dates. ████ didn’t walk in on me giving head last night. We were both in the room last night doing homework. But that note was written so specifically I mean how many other people in my class were also roommates, who live on the second floor of Trowbridge, taking Di’s creative writing class. I mean the odds were low. 

Another weird thing about the pig was this secret crush someone had on Daniel. Every week it’d be “Oh daniel, I like your new haircut” and “Daniel, I have a secret. I have a crush on you.” Every week, we’d guess who the mystery person was.