nearly forgot. at the end of my day. to write.
Forty minutes through alarm this morning. Wrote up deviance project, satisfied with the professor response. He's from Washington. Finished my chapter of Lolita with a vanilla latte outside the bookstorm where I watched tour groups pass by with seniors in high school and parents, post graduate, either to begin a new legacy or to continue an old one. I want to warn them. (The backwards walking guides spew garbage out of their mouths about how great everything is. For them, I imagine, it is all golden sunshine and bedazzled ponies.) Rove to class, anthropology. Saw a girl a slept near twice but looked away. White bright legs, everything hurting my eyes, hide behind sunglasses. Failed to sit near mystery girl # five thousand. Noticed her sure. I sit a row back somewhere everyday. (I held the door open and no one said thank you. I said hello to two girls from my balcony and they barely responded. Somehow my request of have a nice day came off as perverted. I puffed and cigar and had a coffee cup in the windy sunshine, there is dirt in my throat.) We talked of primates, territories and mating. Test approaching. I am not prepared. But I will try to be. No fake ID. Despite the world of the unknown it opens. For this one, ridiculously, I won't go in on it unless I have someone backing me up. I need to know exactly how they did it and that it worked for them. Then I can do it. (I remember smoking out of an apple in my car, full of people, in the sisters driveway. listening to music, Animal Collective and they complained that it wasn't going anywhere). I bounced to English. Lied accidentally to a quiet girl who was picked up over the shoulder by a sunday morning drunken lunatic and brought into a bar, nearly, before comically being thrown to the curb. She is attractive, sure. My conversation feels forced though I don't know why. I'm honest. I tell people my blood is too thick for this climate. My hair is matted with dust and my lungs are sand bags. Achieved a decent grade on the paper, Therese Raquin my dear love. You shouldn't be such a moral martyr my dear. You should revel in your love and your passion, despite shifting temperament. Laurent could be an artist but he is choked, frustratingly, by guilt. I got a good grade, probably more than I deserved but I realize he is not a tough grader in the process. I know now what it takes for an A. Read Write Read Research Write. Longboard through wind home. Apartment. Eat taco soup. Sandwich. Cigar and coffee. Print off copies of things for the next class. Feign interest (I wrote about my experiences in this class in my notebook. It was a stifling feeling and I felt like I appeared as an asshole if not a human). Computer class. Some sarcastic comments. Left without a hurry. The girl who lives somewhere in this complex takes a different route home than I. I thought I left before her but she is ahead of me now. I cross the street before an awful conversation can happen. (Why?? Why??) Shade my eyes from the wind the sun and the shame. I feel like pounding a beer when I walked up my stories. But instead I blow off steam at the gym, lifting incredible weights and sweating and grunting like everybody else. (yeah fuck you! I scream). Eat dinner (have a fiesta in the kitchen). Shoot some hoops. Play guitar for an hour or two. (Every Time I Die riffs and contemplate a guitar notation resource). Talk to mother on phone. Try mike. (I think. I hope I'm not drunk when I'm told it happens because I have the feeling it will not be I who discovers). Drunken discovery would be the worst, but I would never be in that predicament. More guitar. That beer at the same time. Read in bed. Take out trash. Brush teeth. Drink tea. Feel faint and type for a while. Pounding headache coaxing me horizontal. I have a big day tomorrow.
