Crazy. How do you know when someone has gone absolutely insane? Where do we draw the line that marks the border of sanity and insanity? Crazy. I feel crazy at times. Not just the weird quirkiness that reminds people I'm an oddball. I was sitting in Stark today. The interior is appropriately painted shades of dark pastels: fleshy mauve walls bordered by seafoam green pillars and railings. Appropriate for a school of nursing. The only things missing were rank acrid urine and blood odor mixed with cleaner smell of the hospital, the constant rush of doctors, nurses, orderlies, volunteers, patients, visitors, and the clicking of an intercom system directing the chaos to a destination. These hallways were much calmer, empty. An occasional student or faculty appeared from the doors lining the hallways. Even when causually dressed, the people in this building had a neatness about them. Hair: in place. Make-up: conservative. Shirts: tucked in or fitted. Pants: clean, pressed. I look down at my jeans. Ripped from seam to seam at both knees, artistic expressions drawn in permanent marker, shredded bottoms dragging across the ground. I don't belong here. I belong in Minne, with all the tatooed gum chewing freaks. Give me abstract reasoning and the power to criticize other people's work anyday. Get me away from the tick-tock of these health nut perfectionists! I feel safe with the English majors. They accept me. As friendly as these nursing people may be, how accepting are they of my whacky imagination? Bring me back to the 70's style of the 3rd floor Minne, where everyone recognizes me and where we lounge on the foamy big blue couches all day and argue arbitrarily over the meaning behind a particular story. I want to go home.