It is not surprising that I found myself at Sandwich Factory, enjoying what little time I had before my next class. My gimped roommate and I had just sat down for a quick bite, before he had to bolt to his nutrition lab, which was starting in five minutes. Sitting alone at the oversized pseudo wood grain table staring at my half eaten sandwich I glanced up. My eyes quickly focused across the room and set on a pale lanky kid sitting alone one table over. His food was stacked around him like Manhattan skyscrapers, as though he was getting ready for his last stand. It appeared as though he had ordered at least half the menu, a set of greasy, fat ridden hot dogs sitting next to an enormous Belgium waffle. Continuing to stare at this strange individual, I see the sticky syrup covering his mouth and into the Grand Canyon size cracks of his chapped lips. He sat very still, only moving his right arm to shovel in more food; his face sat looking down only a foot away from his feast. He was wearing some kind of sea green science club shirt which I could not make out, as well as some tired looking baggy Levi's that had probably seen better days.
             Catching me off guard, he suddenly lifted his head up revealing my location. His green eyes lit up like fireflies as we both made eye contact with one another. I had been caught playing my game; those few awkward seconds felt like hours dripped in a nervous salty sweat. I was staring into my seven-grain roll, counting each oat I could see, hoping time would move quicker. I reached down in my backpack and pulled out a book, pretending to read it as I killed time while he stuffed his face with food. After about ten minutes, he picked up his things and started to motion towards the door. I gathered all my things quickly, ready to pursue my prey.
             Once outside I kept my distance, making sure I did not have a repeat of what happened earlier. He lugged his large and cumbersome backp...