coff e from a hill of beans

Once upon a time in Ty­pog­ra­phy 101,
I showed up to my fi­nal half-drunk and with food poi­son­ing from a Christ­mas par­ty ear­li­er in the day.

I like to think it was still ap­par­ent that I had put my best work into the project (and that the drunk part was a mis­cal­cu­la­tion – not yet know­ing I had a liv­er prob­lem).

I had a stalk­er who took the class be­cause he re­mem­bered me say­ing – months be­fore – that I was plan­ning to take it. He spent half the class hov­er­ing over me all breathy and British-like, and the oth­er half vis­i­bly brood­ing, not talk­ing to me af­ter I’d made it clear that I wasn’t im­pressed by his phys­i­cal threats.

Sup­pos­ed­ly ex-Mor­mon. But he still wore, like, 3 shirts, hat­ed women, said Mor­mon prayers. Gave me a what-for about how un­be­com­ing it was for me to make any kind of sex­u­al jokes. I dun­no what the fuck it is with peo­ple get­ting so dis­ap­point­ed when they find I’m not whole­some.

He had a cou­ple of pis­tols. I did­n’t check or any­thing, but if I were to make an ed­u­cat­ed guess, they prob­a­bly didn’t have se­r­i­al num­bers. The way he act­ed, I’m not sure he even knew how to use a gun. He seemed like more of a point-blank kin­da guy any­way.

My friends have come to know me as dat­ing creepy dudes – in this case, it was kind of a fling for a cou­ple weeks and hap­pened over a year be­fore this class.

But I think the rea­son guys like this get so up­set and creepy to­wards me, is that I de­cide I don’t want to date them, and I’m just bad at di­rect­ly say­ing “go away” be­cause I’m a tiny lady per­son and afraid of mur­der.

It seems a lot of peo­ple don’t know this: Rapists, mur­der­ers, and bad­dies of that ilk. They’re not strangers in the bush­es. They’re these types of friends. You don’t re­al­ize how dan­ger­ous they are un­til you’re ful­ly sub­merged into some scary sit­u­a­tion with them al­ready.

I asked the teacher to make sure they saw me leave with my ride so I wouldn’t end up in the trunk of this guy’s car or some­thing when no one was watch­ing.

His fi­nal was con­struct­ed out of dis­mem­bered rat corpses, which I first sus­pect­ed as the rea­son I vom­it­ed for, like, 3 hours af­ter.

But it turned out to just be some beans from the of­fice par­ty taco bar. I am al­ler­gic to beans.

—bwargh von mod­nar

Flom­mist Bwargh von Mod­nar is. Copy­right © 2015 Bwargh von Mod­nar. All rights re­served. 

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