November 21, 2002
Sap Fest
It's 8:30 already and I have done nothing but highlight the chapter in my book concerning nomads. That is not a five page paper. That is not even notes for a five page paper.
I feel like Bridget Jones, writing about what I should do as opposed to just doing it.
I can always do it on Sunday. I am being distracted by pictures of Oliver Wood and daydreaming about Christmas vacation.
And looking for Harry Potter things to buy for Christmas presents and yet really only wanting to buy things for myself.
What do I want for Christmas?
A new brain. I started this entry at 8:28, as seen above, and it is not 9:22. I think that history paper is going to be polished up entirely on Sunday, think you not?
I will write some more tonight, though, because I felt very lovely and accomplished after doing so.
Go here. Well, only go if you've seen the show. You won't get it unless you have.
Somehow I always seem to get caught in the rain. And then I'm waiting on the porch of the Office of Equity and Equal Opportunity, listening to Ani Difranco and growing more miserable by the moment as I wait for the bus.
Why am I filled with such apathy?
I want to live in a room with the walls lined with books, and I want to have time to read them.
The couch. The living room. Tuesday Night. After the cooking incident. Halo beckons.
"So, what should we set it on? Easy? Or Normal?"
"Normal. Though I'll probably die."
"That's what you have me for."
"O, yes, Mike. What would I do without you?"
He looks at me, grinning, Xbox controller clutched in his hand.
"Die."
And we look at eachother, laughing, but is that a maybe severity I see in his eyes? I know it's in mine. I look away so he can't see it.
But he sees right through me all the time. I'm sure then was no different.
I wish I made some sort of sense. To someone.
Who would've thought that Halo could draw such feelings out of me. I wish he weren't at work. I wish the two of us didn't have to work.
Next semester he'll be working about sixty hours.
Where does that leave me?
I miss him already. Fucking girlish bullshit.
Freudian slip...?
astera at 8:28 p.m.