Yesterday was my first official day of class. I spent about an hour beforehand standing in line at the bookstore, lugging my new math and lit books (which probably weighed 20 pounds easily) slowly to the front of the line.

Afterward I searched for my American Lit classroom. It was in this obscured building that I've never had a class in at Saddleback, despite how embarrassingly long I've been going there. I chatted with a girl before class who commented that the classroom smelled like an old Volvo. Though I haven't been in many old Volvos, I'm guessing she's right.

The teacher lectured us about how we should keep this room neat and tidy, while I glanced about the room noticing the missing ceiling tiles, flood-stained carpet and chipped paint on the walls. Yes, this is a room that deserves respect, mainly because it is probably releasing chemicals and toxins that will slowly poison you or render you infertile.

At one point in class she asked us to share some information about ourselves. Our major, what year we were, the last book we read. This is where I sealed my social fate and answered honestly that the last book I (re)read was Stiff: The Curious Lives of Human Cadavers by Mary Roach. There was not enough time to defend the book to a point at which I would not look morbid, so I simply stated that learning about early anatomy, embalming, cannibalism and scientific tests cadavers have been subjected to can be fascinating, and that the author takes a candid and respectful approach to death. My fellow students raved about To Kill a Mocking Bird and anything by C.S. Lewis, so I'm sure I stood out. Which... Is good. Right?