The majority of my class time is spent reorganizing my backpack. Pulling out papers I know I don’t need anymore. Putting assignments back in my binder in correct order, chronologically by date. Disposing of every last pen that hasn’t a dot of ink left. Ridding myself of the pencils that just don’t look new anymore and have basically used up their existence. My professors are content because they see me taking notes, they see me turn the pages of my textbook, they understand me, despite my preoccupied clutter taking up two desk spaces instead of one.
Except in my philosophy class. While everyone works at perfecting their Venn diagram skills, I’m busily writing out Switchfoot lyrics–they’re the only thing that keep me sane.