New beginnings...
by Sean Naberhuis

Oh, how I hate that stupid alarm! The thing makes the most God-awful, earsplitting sound. It would probably wake the dead, but anything less irritating or noisy and I would probably sleep until noon. The time... The time... Seven fifteen. I can probably just lie here in bed another twenty minutes or so. I am in no particular hurry.

Of course my mother has other plans. She has this annoying habit of pounding on my door at exactly seven thirty and asking if I am up. This morning is no different. A mumbled grunt and "I'm working on it" is usually all I have to offer. Why break with tradition? It's not like I am worried about being late. I could leave my house at eight fifteen and comfortably get to class on time. It usually only takes about forty-five minutes (assuming traffic is behaving normally) to travel the twenty-seven miles between home and campus.

I force my eyes open and notice it is now almost eight o'clock. It's probably time to get moving, so I drag myself out of bed. I cross my room and turn on the light to my aquarium. The fluorescent light flickers twice, slowly ignites, and I say good-morning to my fish. My turquoise severum shows off his beautiful iridescent colors, probably because he wants his breakfast. Of all the fish in my tank, the two-year old severum is my favorite; such a shame his mate died. I feed them, and they seem to be happy with that. I throw on some clothes and stumble across the hall and into the bathroom. My tired eyes slowly find the their twins in the mirror. My reflection tells me the same thing it says every morning. "You look like hell." Yeah, thanks.

I greet my mom, and she replies with something sarcastic, like "I was beginning to think you died or something." I turn to my new dog, Muffin. She wags her tail and gets all excited, the way all small dogs get. I scratch behind her ears, and she shows me beyond any doubt she loves it. I bag my lunch (another one of those barely edible pizzas), wave good-bye to my mother, and leave for my first day of summer classes. The time: eight twenty. Not bad.

The traffic was as uneventful as the morning radio this morning. It's not that I mind the drive, it's just boring, that's all. Anyway, I work about three miles from campus, and I need to go there anyway, so the class is convenient. I would normally park in the 10th street garage, but today I need to buy a parking pass, so I pull into the 7th street garage at nine o'clock. The walk across campus doesn't hurt anything, and I could use the exercise.

Once inside the Industrial Studies building, I am greeted by that familiar smell of, well, whatever that smell is that always permeates the building, as I continue to the classroom. The room numbers are so screwy in this building, thank God I already know where the one I need is. The same room that terrible color class was in. The class that ended only one week ago. The class that spawned those disgusting fish. I hold my breath, open the door to the auto bay, and they're still there. Those nasty fish, right there on the wall where we left them. I was hoping they would have been removed by some "good taste in art" group or something. No, I'll probably be forced to endure them, as it seems unlikely that they will be removed in the next six weeks.

I wonder if I can safely admit to the class that I am responsible for a couple of these hideous fish? Probably better to keep it a secret for now, less I be mauled by rabid art critics or something. But, there are actually people looking at the fish... I know there are a lot of people with no taste in art, but... No, the room is closed and locked. Talk about deja vu; this happened all the time last semester.

The locked door also surprised the professor, who came to class without a key. How frustrating! But not nearly as frustrating as being given a key chain with about a million keys and being told that "one" of them should work. Oh well, school always seems to start like this, but things usually work out in the end. I liked the Art 1A class I had with Andy, and being as conceited as I am, I think my writing is good (or at least not bad). I just hope I get to write fun things- nothing like those dry, boring philosophy papers I had to write last semester. I don't think I have anything to worry about.