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Don’t cry when eating your lunch.

Have you ever tried to eat a turkey sandwich while crying?—No? Well, let me save you the suspense: It all goes rather swimmingly, that is, until a mayo smothered slice of cheese escapes from its previously secure position between the bread and onto your seasonally appropriate, full length skirt.

Don’t cry while riding your bike.

Oh, you’ve never done that before either? Then let’s just say this: That bus coming at full speed down the street, its driver won’t see those tiny beads of water rolling down your cheeks, therefore, he won’t pick up on your urgency that caused you to peddle directly in front of the massive vehicles path. (Note to self: thank the Mass Transit District for keeping their buses’ brake pads in properly working condition.)

Crying while walking to class?

It can be done.
But only if executed properly. None of that looking down at your feet business; especially during the 10minute break between classes at a ‘Big Ten’ university where the students transform into unorganized worker-ants who are apparently unable to grasp society’s unspoken “walk on the right side of the sidewalk” rule.

You can cry in your room

…unless you live in an apartment and share a rather thin wall with the bedroom of the tenant from apartment #2. In which case, you will discover the next morning while eating breakfast and listening to the muffled conversation of your neighbors coming through the hall that your sobs were mistaken for “some gurl’s laughter” that “kept [her] up last night.”

I would not advise crying in a grocery store.

Nothing out of the ordinary here, just, a lot of stares. Food makes people happy. Grocery stores are happy. The last thing you’d expect to see on your Sunday morning shopping trip, while you’re blissfully sorting through stacks of apples, is a girl smothering the sounds of her sniffles into an open door in the freezer aisle. People stare when you cry at the grocery store.

Crying on the bus?

It’s actually rather nice. Everyone on the bus has their own story—their own place to which they’re traveling. You, solemnly staring out the window while tears silently roll down your face: you’re just another traveler with a story. No one bothers you. And if they do, it’s to offer their pity in the form of a heartfelt smile or “have a good day.”

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Name
Emily Nierman
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Chicago, IL
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Wesson
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