This morning my eyes shot open at 7:45 am, which was dreadful because I haven't slept past 8 am in weeks and I'm beginning to think this is a problem. After making a few half-assed attempts to drift back to sleep, I grab my IPod and cell phone and crawl silently off the side of the bed where my now ex-boyfriend slept less than two weeks ago. Bastard. I do my usual morning routine of scouring Facebook and AIM in a desperate attempt to find someone to socialize with - now that I've quit the presidency of my club, lost my boyfriend, and reduced my units all in two weeks, I have a lot of time to socialize. After reading some highbrow humor online (ah, the joys of life), I spend way too much time getting dressed for my longest day, Wednesday, and I leave 10 minutes late for my appointment at the Tang Center where I'll divulge my bizarre control issues to the same lady I've been divulging to since October when the world went thud. Again, I leave Tang 10 minutes late to arrive 10 minutes late to my theater class where, once again, I am grouped with the hip chick that I sort of admire and the douchey guy with a fake accent who speaks a little too softly. 5 minutes late, I run to my office hours at Cafe Milano, and, just as expected, none of my students show up. Instead, I circle music shows with an orange highlighter in a fresh copy of the East Bay Express and debate the merits of stuffing myself sick with food in order to gain weight so I can start exercising again so I can get out some of this aggression that makes me want to bike down to my ex's house, punch him in the face, and then perform a victory lap around Berkeley to "Eye of the Tiger." I stuff myself sick with food.
I am glad to inform you that the rest of my day went up from there like a shot from a flare gun, particularly when I met Doug Bailey, Gerald Ford's Adman. It spiked again when I posed as a Jew and went to the Hillel BBQ, and I was flying like a purty kite after my first writing class (yes, another attempt to fill up my time and socialize). Filled with energy and a giggly fire in my belly, I went to Moe's and bought a new journal, a book I've been meaning to read, and a collection of poetry by some guy named Joe Pachinko called "The Urinals of Hell." Joe apparently robbed a bank at 17, making him my hero. (I mean, really, who robs a bank at 17? Joe does.) I chose this book because of its utter crudeness. There are jewels in here called "Rape Donuts" and "Please Stop Farting." Despite the fact that it sounds like a pubescent boy penned those titles, the poetry is actually honest, raging, and brutally beautiful.
To top off the night, I ran into Jimmy (who has just as much free time as I do - new drinking buddy!) and skipped home to play another round of "My Roommate is Gay" with Sarah Beth. In the vein of the Lyttle Lytton contest (see yesterday's post), Brian shared a "Found Lytton" from an X-Men Young Adult novel that had me rolling-on-the-floor-laughing-my-ass-off for 5 minutes. Prepare yourself:
"There are those who believe the desert isn't empty, but a vast Roman forum where ghosts and monsters erupt from interdimensional portals for the amusement of alien visitors."
Just dissect that sentence. Enjoy. And have a fan-fuckin-tabulous day!
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