Cryptic Messages From My Past

My class notebooks are plastered from cover to cover with writing. Most people think it's because I'm either incredibly studious or I am using class time to pen that novel.  Both are acceptable answers (neither are correct).

The fact of the matter is that I am taking notes on the class and what we're supposed to be learning, but I'm also writing down every other thought that pops into my head as well. This works out fine for me because writing things down helps me to remember it, but if anyone ever wishes to read my notes it would be like trying to discuss physics in Wonderland. You get a few lines of how that science thing actually works before all of a sudden there is a giant caterpillar asking questions like, "The Square Crows Heros?" and all you can do is just move on and hope to God you can get out of there without losing your soul to the black gobliny thing doodled in the margin.

While my notebooks are useless for navigating my classes, they are useful in finding ideas for things. (I actually wrote an entire script for one of my classes in the margins once.) I can reread them and totally know what was going on in my mind at that time. Well, in most cases that is. There are sometimes when I am looking through them and I can't for the life of me figure out why I wrote "FROZEN TURKEY" or "3480 South Galena." Then like a month later I totally remember that it's because we were discussing Thanksgiving leftovers in class or that I was getting a friend directions.

I don't just leave these cryptic notes in my class notebooks either. I'll be on the phone with my mom and need to write something down. The next thing you know I not only have a pie recipe, but a friendly squirrel named Bunny to share it with as well as several questions on what the purpose of a cuticle is. Then later on I'll look at that same recipe on my bulletin board and stare at it for an hour as I try to figure out what, "Ninja Bitch!" has to do with anything.

The amazing thing is, I actually forget that it's weird until the guy I sit next to in public speaking class who wasn't there last class asks if he can copy my notes. I always say, "yeah, sure thing," and open to the page. Then two things happen: 1) he can't read my handwriting for shit and 2) the only part he can read is my philosophical thoughts on Wheat Thins.

I thoroughly suspect that one day in the future, if I put together all the tidbits of my notes I can't figure out how they relate, I will have elaborate instructions on how to get to a magical unexplored land called my subconscious.