Thankfully, I’ve stopped drinking coffee before it became a habbit. You see, I try never to touch the stuff. And so, when I do, it does a number on me. You can ask some pre-law non-resident tutor Amy. I ran into her last night in the dining hall a full two hours after I had but one single cup of coffee. (The redundancy was for emphasis.)

By that time, of course, the effects of the drug had dissipated. On my way to section — I had stopped by the dining hall for cookies and coffee on my way to music section — I fantasized about what would happen should I continue drinking coffee. I would purchase a lizard, I thought. Frank — as that is what I called the lizard in my head at the time, though I noted carefully and to myself, that his name would depend essentially on his temperment and to call him Frank without regard to his personality would be unfair. For simplicity, I draw upon the stereotype that all lizards are called Frank. At least the hypothetical ones are, in much the same way humans use John or Bob as a common enough name when describing some abstract, fairly anonymous man. This stereotype, regarding the name Frank, is particularly less well-known in human spheres simply, I believe, very few of us speak any of the varieties of lizard; and few of them, human. So, you, kind reader, will excuse my use of the name Frank — he would sit upon my shoulder and sip my coffee. But, as my tastes are well set in their place, and for a generic lizard, as Frank is, we would almost certainly disagree on the ratio of sugar and cream to coffee. Being a lizard, he would demand more sugar. Lizards, you well know, have an insatiable sweet tooth. Between the caffeine and the fights with Frank, I’d lose too much sleep, never finish my thesis, and be forced, by a hypothetical lizard no less, into the navy for the next five years, never to rise above the rank of lieutenant junior grade.

Instead, I’ve turned to my collection of hats. For they and I bicker far less. Today my grey tuque and I purchased a very nice new set of jammers. They are navy blue with a yellow stripe down either side. You will note their accidental but happy coordination with my goggles.

The jammers wear like the skin of a seal that I onced clubbed and skinned while on a trip to a reservation in northern Oregon when visiting a friend who worked on a reservation investigating native forms of art, specifically vase painting, but also sculpture. When I swim in them I feel agile, and breathless, and deft. It’s like a good novel. But underwater and not on the back cover, breathless is a desperate adjective. I swam at the MAC, not having the patience to try out my new suit in at the Blodgett. The warmer water and heavy chlorination makes for dry skin. Even if that skin happens to have come from a seal.