Because there has only been one vote thus far in Choose What Matthew Will Write About Wednesdays -- go to the 4th and punch your chad, people -- I have decided to devote today's main post to writings by two lovely readers of How Perfectly Swell, Kimberly Prins and Jonathan Giuffrida. Kimberly, as you may recall, had promised to write a journal entry for this weekend; having failed, however, she was "proactive" and "took ownership of the situation" and has written an entry for today.

In general, I feel no desire whatsoever to have my own blog. Commenting on Matt's blog when the mood strikes (or the contest requires) generally suffices for my need to share my life with the world. But I did have a bizarre experience last week that didn't fit with any existing comments and yet I felt the need to share.

So, Matthew has this strange fondness for French, puts it all over his blog, and yet can't speak a word of the language. I, on the other hand, had 8 years of Spanish complete with a minor and yet don't use a stitch of it. But, I guess all this foreign language stuff is getting to me subconsciously because last week I had a dream in Spanish. I don't remember an awful lot about the dream's content (something about a dance studio, I think), but I really distinctly remember that I was speaking in Spanish and so were the other characters. I wasn't a native speaker in this dream, mind you; I was just Kim in a bizarre situation in a Spanish-speaking locale.

Like I said, I don't remember much of the content, but I do remember a lot of my feelings during this dream. I was doing fairly well at conversing in Spanish, but I also remember searching for words and choosing the long way around at times (that is, describing a word when I couldn't think of the right word). I can remember the frustration I felt at losing those words, but also the satisfaction at thinking in Spanish rather than translating my English thoughts.

Has anyone else had such an experience? I feel like such a freak that not only do I think in Spanish when I speak it in real life, but I dream in Spanish! I'm sure Matthew can't say that about his lovely French!

As a rising senior in high school, I need some sort of job to help pay for college. In my home town, Ames, Iowa, the only source of jobs for high schoolers is the fast food industry. Burger King is certainly favored in this small town, so naturally I have a summer job there. On this particular night, in summer, I was working in the dining room, which meant that my job entailed cleaning tables, refilling the soda machine, taking the trash out to the Dumpster, and ensuring that all the patrons are given mints. I have been doing this since I was employed at the Burger King.

Taking out the trash meant collecting the garbage bags, bringing them to the green Dumpster outside, and throwing the bags inside. When I brought the trash to the Dumpster around 7:00 that night, however, I noticed a man leaning against the Dumpster, eating a half-eaten sandwich thrown away earlier in the day. His clothing consisted of tattered remnants of a suit coat and slacks with holes. He wore tennis shoes as well; to me, it seemed he wore them almost as an afterthought. He had long, dark, and greasy hair that dangled just over his shoulders and the shadow of a beard implying that he didn't give too much thought to shaving. My first impression of him was that he was obviously either homeless or a druggie; what else could I think?

In Ames, there are just enough restaurants to let someone like me keep from starving. It's relatively easy to find the Dumpsters; they're always surrounded by high fences of balsa wood. Employees are usually too preoccupied to worry about locking the fences, and I don't blame them. In this small town, everyone knows at least half of the occupants. Nobody has any idea that homeless people live in Ames.

I was desperate for another job when I was unceremoniously fired only about two weeks ago. I had lived in an apartment near the center of town, where all the businesses have offices. On my salary, there was no room for anything more; I was barely meeting my monthly expenses and paying rent. When I lost my job, I knew I had no hope of keeping the apartment; nevertheless, I tried to bargain with the landlord. That did nothing for me but keep me under a roof for another couple of days and postpone my searching for jobs. Eventually, I sold everything but a few suits and some personal items to meet the rent. The one thing I least wanted was to lose my home before I found another job. I lost it anyway within a week and found myself stuck on the streets.

Just to my luck, no jobs were to be had in Ames. There were no openings anywhere and anyone who could have hired me was certainly turned away by my dirty suits - clothes only last for so long when you live in the streets. Luckily, I was raised to hate drugs and I never took them. I didn't even know where I could have obtained any in such a small town.

I turned to Dumpsters when I ran out the little pocket change I still had. This was a shocking change for me, going from a prominent position in a prosperous company to eating from Dumpsters in only two weeks. On this day, I had chosen to "patronize" Burger King and raided their trash for relatively clean food. I chose half a sandwich - as the saying goes, beggars can't be choosers, and I couldn't reject everything that wasn't impeccably clean - and had just started to eat it when an employee walked out the back door, carrying two black plastic bags of trash. The gate was open and he spotted me immediately; I could follow his eyes, looking me up and down, taking in my soiled clothes and my dirty state. I could only guess what he thought of me. I froze in my position against the Dumpster while my mind raced for an explanation.

The man was frozen in place next to the Dumpster. I was in a state of complete panic. What should I do? Should I tell him to beat it, or ignore him, or tell the manager? The manager was always a lofty person at Burger King, with a commanding presence. I was, to tell the truth, afraid of him. I was in a dilemma, to say the least. I had no idea what to do.

The man moved just then, taking a dirty hand away from his sandwich and putting one finger to his lips, as if to say "shhh". Without warning, he spoke, in a soft yet raspy voice: "Our little secret." My mind was still racing. Did he want me to forget how he had just slipped into the Dumpster area and stolen from our trash? I didn't know whether or not that was against the law, but I knew it was something he wasn't supposed to do.

I put my finger back down to my sandwich, studying the employee closely. He was pretty young, probably in high school or college, working to earn tuition money. I could see the beads of perspiration on his forehead, though the night wasn't very hot. I could almost watch his mind working: here he was, a simple employee, suddenly confronted with a problem he didn't know how to solve. It was obvious he was thinking of turning me in to his manager; how could I blame him for that?

I stood there, as immobile as he, for close to fifteen seconds. I considered fleeing but decided instead to see what happened. Then, the employee's eyes once again emerged from his thoughts and he strode briskly to the Dumpster next to me. Throwing the bags swiftly into it, he turned away and walked back through the door.

I didn't see the man when I returned outside with another load of trash. There was no trace that he'd ever been there, but I remembered his image clearly burnt into my mind. I thought about his appearance while I continued with my work, cleaning tables inside the dining room. He was obviously on some type of drugs; why else would he have stood there so casually? Anyone else would have fled upon seeing someone in Burger King uniform.

Around 7:50, as I was refilling the ice in the soda machine, the bells above the door jingled. I ignored it, accustomed to the sound; all it meant was that customers had walked into the building. Then I heard the conversations die down around me and I looked up, curious. Two people had walked into the restaurant. One of them was the druggie and the other was a second man in the same general state as the first. Both held plastic cups in their hands.

We had gotten those cups from the Burger King Dumpster. As I walked in with my friend, whom I had "discovered" a few days ago was also homeless, the usual talking around us ceased and people turned around to gape at us. Even people like us didn't normally walk into a Burger King. We ignored the conspicuous stares and walked to the soda machine.

As I said before, I was working at the soda machine. When the two druggies walked toward me, I was intimidated, terrified that I had somehow angered him and that he was about to get even in some way. I backed away slowly, but the men only filled their dirty cups with ice and Coke and made their way into the dining room.

Everywhere we went, people looked up from their tables at us. To them, we were intruders in their normal, peaceful lives. There was no sound in the building except the dull hum of the air conditioning and the bustle of activity behind the counter, oblivious to events in the dining room.

We chose seats in the far corner of the room and sat down, ignoring once again the indignant looks of the people around us. I remember the thought that went through my head: Didn't their parents tell them staring is impolite?

I was once again in a moral dilemma. Two druggies had just stolen not only some trash, but Coke as well. I didn't know whether or not to tell the manager or some other employee. I was scared that the two men might be armed in some way and I didn't want anything like that to happen. Not in Ames.

Then, as I glanced at the two men, I caught the first man's eyes. He smiled at me briefly, not the forced, strained smile I expected, but with one that was warm and gentle.

My friend and I were talking to each other and telling each other stories. We laughed frequently, even though it unnerved the people near us. A few people left, but we didn't care. I looked around every couple minutes, however, to make certain no one official, like the manager, was in sight. The employee I had evidently frightened went resolutely back to work with the soda machine.

Then, during a break in our conversation, I watched as a man in an immaculate white suit walked out of a back room to the employee, who had turned to the basket of mints on the counter. He tapped the employee on the soldier and spoke something softly to him. Adrenaline filled my system; I didn't want to be in any sort of trouble, especially not when I was homeless.

The manager never acknowledged the dirty men in the back of the dining room - he probably didn't even notice them. I finished filling the basket and hurriedly clocked out. It was my leaving time, 8 o'clock. I walked quickly out the door without looking back one last time at the druggies. I haven't seen them since, and I really hope I never do.