My license plate is, hypothetically for the sake of privacy, 35L P62.
About a year ago I was driving behind a car that looked similar to mine — 10 or 15 years old, boxy and blue. More importantly their license plate number was 32L P62. Again, for the sake of privacy, that’s not entirely accurate — what’s important is that the license plate number was exactly the same save the second digit — mine a 5, theirs a 2.
I was blown away and hardly believed it. I assumed my bad eye sight got the best of me and I mostly forgot about it.
Yesterday, while walking back to my car from class, I saw it. THE car. With THE license plate. 32L P62. On campus of a school of 9,500 students, they were not only parked in the same lot as I, but a mere 10 cars away.
I was blown away. I still am! It’s the most amazingly boring thing that has ever happened to me! I took a picture of their license plate and then my own so I could bore my friends with this story!
They’re probably my soul mate! Or out to kill me? Between that happening yesterday and the fact that today, after entering the library to do homework to take my mind off of something that is making me feel so nervous that I quite literally feel nauseous, I saw that out of a mere 3 books on the Free Book Exchange shelf, one of them was about the very topic that has been eroding away at my mental health all afternoon. Why! And I’m not fixing that super long sentence, either!
I feel like Jason Schwartzmann’s character in I Heart Huckabees: What am I doing? I don’t know what I’m doing. I’m doing the best that I can. I know that’s all I can ask of myself. Is that good enough? Is my work doing any good? Is anybody paying attention? Is it hopeless to try and change things? The African guy is a sign, right? Because if he isn’t than nothing in this world makes any sense to me; I’m fucked. Maybe I should quit. Don’t quit. Maybe I should just fucking quit. Don’t fucking quit. Just, I don’t know what the fuck I’m supposed to do anymore. Fucker. Fuck. Shit.