Sanity is For the Weak, and There is a Yeti in My Backyard: the


Sanity is For the Weak, and There is a Yeti in My Backyard: the Day in the Life of That girl in Your English Class.

I have heard it said before that creative people tend to be crazy. Well if life was a post hoc ergo propter hoc fallacy, then I could be considered a crazy creative person. The life I lead is far from the social norm of most twenty-one year old college students. When I think of college students the key words that come to mind are: dorms, parties, studying and the best years of your life. Unfortunately my life has very little to do with all of those things. For along with college, I rent my own house, work two jobs and have no life. Even this essay; which began with the Greeks, and later inspired by jealousy was not written normally. This is not even my first essay; the Greeks did in fact eat my paper (damn Trojan virus!) So in protest of myself and in challenge; I decided to create a new essay. I tend to be inspired in strange ways. When I met a friend in between classes I noticed that she had an odd pair of boots. They were dark brown, furry at the top, and laced up. In summery they were the perfect boots to hunt a yeti, and I desperately wanted a pair. For if I had a pair of said yeti hunting boots, I could write a short story about a yeti in the frozen tundra. Thus began the hunt for a pair of yeti hunting boots, but that is a different story; this story is about me, and what happens in a period of twenty-four hours.

The alarm goes off; the time is 6:30. 6:30 is a good time, a great time, an ideal time to wake up. For I have time to take a long shower, carefully choose my clothes, primp in the mirror, cook a nice breakfast, pack a lunch and leave for school at a reasonable time. I do not wake up at 6:30. After hitting the snooze button at least 4 but no more than 5 times, it is now 7. 7 is a reasonable time. I can take a short shower, brush out my hair, apply mascara, dress and rush through a bowl of cereal. I do not usually wake up at 7. The time now reads 7:28, class is at 8. In a rush of what I call “oh shit” I skip the shower, grab whatever clean clothes I can find, brush my teeth and am out the door. The time is 7:40 as I climb into my tuck and quickly realize that I am out of gas. Why, oh why, am I always out of gas? I know this answer; it is because if I am not working, I’m driving. Yet, knowing this does not stop me from whining. Luckily I have just enough gas to get to the college, and worry about this problem later. At 7:55 I am running into my first class. I have made it. All is well.

One hour and twenty minutes later I find myself sitting in the life center, where I should be studying because, I do not have much free time. Sadly, I am not studying, I am writing. I consider myself a storyteller. I write about the unknown, the epic adventures, hidden worlds, unrequited love, cursed mermaids, and the occasional yeti. In each story are the characters, and the characters are me. Not Rachel per say, but a part of me, my soul, my words: the good, the bad, the bystander. All are parts of me, and keeping all of these “me’s” in my head is like a cage. They need to be released, or it plagues my every thought until I do. I also understand that most normal people’s real lives are not disrupted by the imaginary. During this time is also when I have lunch, at that great place called the vending machine. Not the healthiest place, but the most convenient for me.

At 11 is my next class, where I ponder the story behind one of my peers. His story interests me, and I find him an interesting character. One which I will store in my mental library until a story needs an unsung hero. Also it is where I half listen to the peer beside me, because half of what he says is useless. After writing more stories when I should be listing things class soon ends.

A little after 12, I find myself racing out to the parking lot, where I quickly change into my scrubs, no time to go to a bathroom. I have just less than 45 minutes to get to Bonham at 1. It is then I remember that I still need to get gas. So as I start my truck I pray to get to the gas station. Once there as fast as I can I pump gas, which is, by the way, never fast. After what seems like forever because I am now running late I am on my way to Bonham. The next 40 minutes are considered story time. It’s a strange thing when I’m alone and listening to the radio. Certain songs make me thing of my characters and their situations. Before I can stop myself I will listen to a song over and over again till I have made the perfect music video in my head to where the events match the song in my head. A song can be perfected anytime from a few minutes to a few days.
Depending on the time, I usually arrive to my first patient’s house around 1:15. Due to certain laws I cannot name names. Mr. One happily greets me with the wrong name, but I do not mind. I cook a boxed dinner, play with his cat, sweep, mop, and bathe Mr. One. Two hours later I am on my way to see Mr. Two, one of my favorites. I will mainly just sit and talk with him about the past, which I find most rewarding. An hour later I find my way out to Gober, where I see Mr. Three. There I give him a quick sponge bath, and spend the rest of the time talking and playing with his puppies. An hour and a half later I’m back to Denison where I see Mrs. Four for two hours. Mrs. Four is just simply amazing. She is a mother of 5 and been to Iraq twice, her husband just came home last week from war. Her back got injured so I help with her kids and I make sure she does not fall.
When I am done with my fist job, it’s another “oh shit” moment as I rush to get to my night class. Three hours of sitting in utter confusion of Anatomy and physiology later I’m off again, to the joy of my second job.

I find it funny when everyone I meet after I tell them what my second job is; they say how great it would be to work there, Books A Million. It is not. They pressure their employees to sell twenty dollar discount cards; ruins all fun. To work at a book store would be fun, if it were family owned, and not corporate. If it is a good night then I will be home by 11:30, but most of the time I will get home around midnight or later.

When I do finally get home it takes a while for me to settle down, so perhaps I will watch a show or finish reading one of my many books. Half of my day is spent in a dream world, which will hopefully help me out in the future. My days are very long and busy. I am quite sure I lost my mind long ago, and if anyone has a problem with it they can talk to the yeti in my backyard. As I mentioned earlier, I’m not like most college students. I live on my own, and do not have any help from my family. Wither it be by choice or not finically obligated too. Not that I need help, yeti’s like me, are very independent creatures. My life makes just about as much sense as the use of yetis in this essay. I understand it, a rare few do, but most of the world thinks it weird. At the end of the day, before I fall asleep I set my alarm for 6:30. Perhaps tomorrow will go as planned.

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