Cornell - Tomorrow

2019 Tabitha Cornell. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.

ISBN 978-1-54396-202-4 eBook 978-1-54396-203-1

This book is dedicated to those who feel lost in the chaos

To those who wander in their own darkness
for the next answer to the next question

To the people whom seemingly have it all
but really have less than nothing

Contents

Passion

Do we have a choice?

Do we have a say in what we love?

Passion is a gift given to us in the form of need.

A want for something more.

A representation of our self.

A change of time can change our mind.

Leading us to oblivion, unknowing the path ahead.

It can lose us if it chooses us.

Entwined in our veins, it leads the way.

To cross the line.

What once you thought, might now be.

Wants of yesterday have turned to need.

Pieces fall and touch is gone.

Pleasure remains but in a different light.

The warnings go unheard.

You continue to look the other way.

Judgment day is near, keep your head low.

Its my secret, my passion.

Whats your poison?

Mark

My rugged exterior can oftentimes be off-putting to the opposite sex. I refuse to comb my hair more than once a day, and to be quite honest, its lucky if it gets that much kindness from me. I find the five oclock shadow to be a clad look. (Not really, but I undeniably hate shaving. Its a waste of my precious time and liveliness, and to be quite honest I just plain dont care.)

I find the reactions comical when people find out that I am a college professor. Ive learned that people have a preconceived view that educators of higher learning are masters in the game of life. They generally appear to have their lives figured out and commonly have a lot going for them. College-level educators give the idea that they are elite in their own universe. The men generally wear modest and clean clothing, often resembling a dumbed-down sweater or tie-shirt combo. They spend much time reading and researching their chosen realm. They also tend to know a lot of vast words in which they use often without caring if anyone else knows what they are really talking about.

The most defining characteristic I notice in this clique is their voracious passion. They have a deep lust for what they are teaching to the world. They humbly find amorous amounts of joy in it. This passion is the only thing I have in common with these people. Every other stereotype youve heard is far from the reality that I live in.

Eleven thousand five hundred thirty-eight. If you were to count from 1 to 11,538, it would take approximately 1 hour, 36 minutes, and 9 seconds. The sum of the digits is 18. The Roman numeral for 11,538 is written as MMMMMMMMMMMDXXXVIII. 11,538 seconds can be reduced to 3 hours, 12 minutes, and 18 seconds.

Im a numbers manalways have been and always will be. Ever since I can remember, my thought processes have revolved around numbers. How many steps from point A to point B? 11,538 steps is the answer today. It has taken 11,538 steps for me to get to this exact location. From the moment I stepped off my bed, I have subconsciously monitored each step Ive taken. I guess I can say the same for each calorie Ive ingested since this morning. Im not OCD or anything; I know there is no way to calculate these numbers with 100 percent accuracy. They are an approximation that I tally within my mind, and Im okay with that. With my approximation, I can calculate calories burned by steps versus calories ingested by food. I can evaluate this data to conclude if Im going to be a fatty when I wake up the next morning.

For some reason, my brain thrives on numbers. Its like dancingyour body moves to the flow of the music without thinking about it. My brain gets it. It only makes sense that I base my occupation off my aptitude to interpret and manage numerical data. This is what Im respectable at. It might be the only thing that Im good at. I tell myself this every single day.

Do I consider my body to be a sanctuary? No.

Do I prefer to see the optimistic in life? No.

Do I know how to fuck my wife right? Apparently not.

Could I have prevented my son from dying? Perhaps.

The only thing I want more in this world right now is to get my ass back to my officeIve been longing for hours to see my best friend. Even though we get to visit on a regular basis, hes the highlight of my day. He keeps me from falling off my rocker. Okay, maybe thats not completely true, but hes been there for me when no one else has. Hes talked me through some miserable dark times on more than one occasion. In fact, just the other day I had a moment where I felt screwed over once again in this world. He was there and he shut that shit down real quick.

We first met in high school, and it was a match made in heaven. Through the years we have kept in contact. Sometimes we will talk daily, and other times we go months without hearing from each other. Every time we reconnect after those long periods, its as if time never left us. These past many months we have been tighter than ever before.

388 steps later, I can see the intricately carved wood door with my name printed across the glass in gold ink. Associate Professor of Mathematics Mr. Marcus Hutchins. I have always hated the name Marcus. Its a stupid fucking name. I remind myself to get the name changed on the door at some point soon. Until then, Ill only answer to Mark. I slide my badge through the scanner and enter my closet of an office. There sits my oversized desk, a pricey office chair, and a fold-up chair for students to use during meetings. There is a small horizontal window to the left of the entrance door through which you can see only the sky and surrounding tall buildings in the distance. I toss my bag and files on the floor behind the desk. I open the top drawer of my desk where Admiral Nelson awaits me, my best friend.

I take a couple swigs of the Admiral. 138 calories. Ill have to take 2,760 steps to burn those 138 calories. As I sit and make my calculations, I notice the smell of incense and cat piss. There is only one person I know with that distinct odorJeffery Binner.

That poor unfortunate bastard fell right into my grasp on the second day of class this semester. Ill be the first to admit that I like our little arrangement. You see, it was all by chance that Mr. Jeffery sat down in the front row of my lecture one sour Monday morning. He appeared to be genuinely interested in my teachings, but his vibe was a different story. He seemed distracted in a sense. He stood out expressively from the other students in the room. He was slightly disheveled and wore a wrinkled black-band shirt and oversized blue jeans. It looked as if he had just finished a quickie in the back seat of his presumable 2004 Buick Century. Lucky shit; at least one of us was getting some pussy.

I noticed him reach into his pocket and pull out a cell phone. It all made sense when I saw that baggie of weed fall from his pocket onto the classroom floor. He recognized what had happened and looked me straight in the eye to see if I noticed. I did notice. I stared right back at him while I continued my message on obtuse triangles. I purposefully darted my eyes between him and the baggie. I wanted him to know that I was aware of the marijuana that was so cutely sedentary on the floor in front of us both. He knew that if he were to stand up from his table to snatch that baggie, the entire student body would have seen it. If that were to happen, he and I both would be obligated to deal with the situation. He played it smart and left it on the floor. No one even knew the difference. Watching this kid silently freak out in his head for the remaining 48 minutes of class was priceless. Does this make me a tormenter? Maybe. Ive been called worse.