Holding Up the Universe: List 3

In first period, Mick from Copenhagen is talking to me, but I’m too busy to listen because I’m writing my resignation letter from school.

I’m Indiana’s high school version of Typhoid Mary.

I’m looking at Kam, and he goes, “Of course, Mrs. Chapman. Vitamin C is not only crucial to our development, it protects us from scurvy.”

I’ve always loved her and felt sorry for her because she’s quirky and weird, just like me, and—I’ve told myself—misunderstood.

But right then Mr. Levine moseys in. “Hello, hello. Thank you all for being here today.”

He says, “Let’s get this out of the way. I’m not going to talk to you about the importance of tolerance, equality, and realizing that we’re all in this together because I don’t think you’re stupid and completely lacking moral fiber. I think you’re smart individuals who did really stupid things. Who wants to start?”

“So the Why was a lot of things. It was inheriting my dad’s Hulk-size thighs and slow metabolism. It was being bullied on the playground. It was my mom dying and the way she died, and me being afraid and me feeling alone and worrying, always worrying, and Dad being sad, and Dad loving food and loving to cook, and me wanting him to feel better and also wanting me to feel better.”

“How long have you known about the face blindness?”
“I figured it out around fourteen. It wasn’t this kind of overnight revelation, though. It was more like this process. I had to put the clues together, so it took a while.”

I’m looking at her, and I’m charged with all this crazy, heart-pounding adrenaline.

I just want to move forward like everyone else without being grabbed in cafeterias as if I’m some sort of prize heifer at a rodeo.

Jack says, “Hey, man, just trying to do my civic duty.”

Now they’re having some sort of standoff, bristling at each other like two cats in an alley.

“So can you. Mom wouldn’t want you to be alone.” I can almost hear her. Give me a respectable mourning period, Will, but don’t stop living your life.

Reports of prosopagnosia date back to antiquity.

One of the telltale signs of prosopagnosia is great reliance on non-facial information such as hair, gait, clothing, voice.

One of the telltale signs of prosopagnosia is great reliance on non-facial information such as hair, gait, clothing, voice.

I visit a few of the links to Face to Face, the biannual newsletter, and then I take the Famous Faces test, which tests my ability to recognize celebrities.

If you believe that you are prosopagnosic or have other types of recognition impairments and are interested in becoming involved with research, please contact us using our form.

I wait to spontaneously combust, like Knight Polonus Vorstius of Italy, who burst into flame after drinking too much wine.

The Hunt brothers are as notorious as the James Gang.

“One minute she was talking to them, and the next minute she wasn’t. It all happened in an instant. Conscious.” I snap my fingers. “Unconscious. The doctors said the thing that caused it was a cerebral hemorrhage in the right hemisphere of her brain. Something just burst.”
“Like an aneurysm?”

“One minute she was talking to them, and the next minute she wasn’t. It all happened in an instant. Conscious.” I snap my fingers. “Unconscious. The doctors said the thing that caused it was a cerebral hemorrhage in the right hemisphere of her brain. Something just burst.”
“Like an aneurysm?”

“One minute she was talking to them, and the next minute she wasn’t. It all happened in an instant. Conscious.” I snap my fingers. “Unconscious. The doctors said the thing that caused it was a cerebral hemorrhage in the right hemisphere of her brain. Something just burst.”
“Like an aneurysm?”

I wonder where geeky Caroline is right now, if the other day was real or a fluke and this newer, shinier Caroline has really swallowed her whole.

I slam the locker door closed, shoulder my backpack, and start walking, the weight of all those letters drilling me into the ground. Iris trudges along behind me, still talking.

I saunter toward the exit, trying to look as carefree as one can in this particular situation, but the smaller one blocks my way.

I can’t afford another fight, so I duck and Probably Reed goes sprawling while Probably Moses ricochets into the wall, and then I throw open the door and I’m out of there.

It’s the sappiest eighties ballad you’ve ever heard, and all that’s missing is a DJ and a corsage pinned to my shirt.

It’s the sappiest eighties ballad you’ve ever heard, and all that’s missing is a DJ and a corsage pinned to my shirt.

It’s the sappiest eighties ballad you’ve ever heard, and all that’s missing is a DJ and a corsage pinned to my shirt.

Mr. Levine goes, “Don’t stop! It’s a dance-off. Go, go, go!” And he’s dancing like a crazy man. For a moment, all we can do is gawk at him. I mean, it’s a spectacle. The man is all legs and arms and flopping hair.

In that moment, my Damsels dream wavers because the audition will be so much worse.

If you aren’t able to make it to Hanover, we suggest being in touch with Dr. Amber Klein, Department of Brain Sciences, Cognitive Neurology, Indiana University, Bloomington.

If you aren’t able to make it to Hanover, we suggest being in touch with Dr. Amber Klein, Department of Brain Sciences, Cognitive Neurology, Indiana University, Bloomington.

But then I decide to call her. I go straight to voice mail and leave a rambling apology.