Hamlet-Personal Narrative

I was looking at my reflection in a window when a bird defecated on me. It’s a curious thing, being defecated on, in that it’s nearly impossible to maintain your cool. In that moment, I began to make some noises that one might hear in a zoo or crowded bar. I can only assume this is what alerted the man residing behind the window of my existence within his vicinity. My old English professor opened the door. He glanced at the excrement atop my head, into my eyes, and then continued in a flickering pattern. “A bird in the hand is worth two in the bush,” he said. “And what is a bird on the head worth?” “Your dignity, perhaps.” “You can’t lose something you’ve already lost. Anyway, how is your wife?” “Dead, as far as
We watched the local college group perform their rendition of Hamlet. This theater was musty and cold. The air inside turned my fingertips a shade of pink and ivory, sort of like those pretty flowers in shop windows. I’ve always found that funny. His knee was touching mine the entirety of the show, but I didn’t move away. I didn’t want to. It was the only point of heat in the whole building. He leaned over to whisper something in my ear, but I didn’t quite hear it. Instead, I nodded and made vague humming noises to assure him that I did, in fact, hear and agree with whatever it was he felt compelled to say. His breath was hot and smelled like something from my mercifully brief childhood. A large woman found her way to the exact seat necessary to obstruct my view, but before I could think up a polite form of protest the woman turned and asked if she was in my way. I told her she was fine. Conflict was the last thing I was searching for. For much of the show, he was trying to discuss the relationship between Ophelia and Hamlet. What was there to discuss? When love is forbidden by society everybody dies, or at least that’s what I learned from Shakespeare. I wanted to talk about Heinrich von Kleist and the marionette theater. He did not. “Do you think Hamlet was really insane?” he