Welcome back to CrazySchool

One of the more charming aspects of going to a small liberal arts school is the rather large number of students with poor social skills.

I met one such person during my freshman year of college. One night as I entered a dorm hall, she walked over and introduced herself. No stranger to introductions, I followed suit. I noticed that we were having a conversation different from most when my new acquaintance of about five minutes poked my stomach and began asking me about my work-out habits. "How often do you go to the gym?"

"Um... about three times a week?" I responded.

"Wow, I can never get myself to go." She proceeded to explain the age-old dilemma of wanting to exercise but being unmotivated and discouraged by the long (10 minute) walk to the gym. This was not a rare topic per say, but asking me to flex my arms so she could feel my bicep was a bit odd.

Later that night, I was telling a friend about the strange conversation I had. "Wait, who was this?"

"Girl," I said.

They laughed. "Oh man, that was CrazyGirl!" Apparently people decided to add this prefix to her name, both so they could feel superior and to distinguish who they were talking about.

By sophomore year, everybody I knew had heard of CrazyGirl. She was popular in that way nobody wants to be; everybody knew her name and loved to talk about her, but nobody wanted to invite her to hang out.

I felt bad for her. Bad enough that I wouldn't run away at the sight of her walking toward me or make excuses to leave immediately when she started talking to me. In this way, she came to sit down at a table with myself and some friends last week. She stayed for long enough that we all ran out of things to talk about with her, so after a few moments of silence, she would bring up a new topic. A few moments later, the conversation would falter and we would plunge back into silence.

Breaking the silence again, CrazyGirl asked my friend The Worrier: "Did you know that fat peoples' legs rub together when they walk?"

My head, facing the opposite direction, snapped over so I could stare at CrazyGirl. Had I really heard her correctly? "Yes" The Worrier replied.

The table fell silent for a few more moments. "I wonder if it hurts. Do you think it's uncomfortable?"

I finally took my chance to ignore CrazyGirl while my friend continued to discuss large thighs with her. A few moments later, we left her to contemplate this philosophical question on her own.