Vietnamese grass & projectile vomit

As I stepped outside the heavy glass doors of the corporate office building, my heart was decelerating from having asked the cute girl in the career office out to lunch. I stopped for breath in front of the courtyard and gazed at the wind currents washing over the grass like a scene from a Vietnam War movie.

All the failed meditation has amounted to is zoning out. As much as I tried to digest the Vietnamese grass, my mind was listing towards recalling how nervous I was in front of that girl. I couldn't even grasp the street cleaning crew blowing plumes of finger-size leaves into the air. They folded in yellows and browns and I didn't notice. Then I passed the three-orange-cone-worthy destruction of a phone booth, which appeared to be ripped from the ground by an ogre.

I met with Betty the resume builder at the career office. The office had three entrances/exits and Betty fluttered through them like a fairy. My imagination became a bookie taking bets on which door she'd emerge from and exit to next. She gave crash tours of the office to shell-shocked post-interviewees, who trotted in her wake like sheep. Betty sat the sheep down at career cubicles and pointed out emphatically, "Boy! We're full today!" I couldn't help chuckle that that must mean unemployment was high.

Finally four-thirty came and it was my turn. I entered the Shepard's domain with a limp piece of white legal letter. Betty started talking and I wondered if she was on Adderall. "Ye-" "Oak-" "Mm-"; my affirmations were severed in half by Betty's time management skills. A video replay may indicate that I merely mumbled. No matter, for my cloud-nine mind was observing her eyelids snap and release green eyes that matched her sweater. Did she plan that? She must've. The resume doctoring proceeded but I was more focused on the mental image of me projectile vomiting all over Betty, in one expansive arc of pea soup. Here's the moment of constant occurrence where I wonder if others can read my mind.