Author: Olavia Kite

Apparently the answer to the question is

I hate it when things stop making sense.

I wish I cared about how Kate Chopin’s “Désirée’s Baby” exemplifies the power of race in society in light of Ian F. Haney López’s “The Social Construction of Race.” I’m trying hard not to think about it as to work on it as an ant would mindlessly drag a half-bitten leaf, but this bland blank brain just won’t take it in.

Is there some clue that I’m failing to understand? I’m looking for that hidden arrow pointing towards the true direction of my life, some sort of untapped talent or at least something that doesn’t paralyze me with fear and/or boredom. The waters of my mind are infested with eels, and not even thick-skinned crocodiles can dive in to help me find that treasured epiphany everybody seems to have at some point in their youth when they just know what they want to do for the rest of their lives. Everybody seems so full of resolve, and I only stare at waves leaving algae on a faraway shore like an endless offering to an unknown god. If only the waves would bring me something too.

I’m trying to snooze because I’ve opened my eyes at 7am despite having fallen asleep at 3am, and it’s unfair with my mind that my body is so used to waking up early no matter what. It’s Sunday, after all, so I should try to get some more rest. I toss and turn with the music on, so whenever there’s a song that doesn’t mingle well with my dreams, I have to move my arm and press a button to change it, resetting the whole cycle. Suddenly, the phone rings.

“Good morning, girl!” says a cheerful voice at the other side of the line. I recognize that voice all too well, and I laugh. I always laugh when I hear him. It’s not that there’s anything funny about him, but it’s rather related to the joy he brings.

He’s speaking in English. He’s talking really fast and I don’t understand everything he’s saying, partly because I’m partly deaf, and partly because I’m partly sleepy. He tells me all about his recent nightly outing and this club full of teenagers and twelve francs for the entrance and altogether eighteen francs or something and I’ve no idea how much in yen is one Swiss franc so I mistakenly assume from his tone that it must be expensive. I’m listening intently, stupidly wondering why we’re having this conversation in English, as if I had forgotten our custom of alternating languages indistinctly. It could’ve very well been French: then I would’ve been in real trouble. I’m doing my best to recover that language from the shipwreck of oblivion in order to broaden our verbal spectrum.

He’s still talking and I’m not saying much. I’m a zombie with Asperger’s: I love that he’s calling but can’t understand why he’s doing so. All the love in my heart is not enough to make up for my chronic social autism, so I interpret this sudden bout of upbeat verbosity as—

“Are you drunk?”