Today's the first day this week I don't have to do any official orientation activities. Mellow as hell.
Yesterday I saw a shirtless tattooed guy beating a pay phone with the receiver while his hick girlfriend yelled at him, outside my dorm.
I also met the faculty of the Dramatic Writing program. They seem like extrodinarily cool people, and we got free pizza. I am definitely the hottest piece of ass in the freshman Dramatic Writing class, though, I've decided. No surprise there.
Last night while a bunch of my friends were at the VMA red carpet I went down to Alyx's boyfriend Andrew's insane dorm on Water Street, which is, as the name suggests, down on the water a million miles away from anything NYU-related. We played poker and smoked cigarillos and drank Killian's in his hall-mate's obscenely big room. Hardwood floors and vaulted ceilings were the order of the night. As was me losing, big time. Good thing we weren't playing for actual money, since we don't have any.
I am taking great pictures here, like it's possible not to. Wish you could see them. Isn't the picture up there great, though? It's by Elliot Erwitt, who I decided, after flipping through a book of his at The Strand yesterday, is a fucking genius. The Strand is only a few blocks from my humble abode.
I might get a job phone-soliciting for a Jewish charity in midtown. Or one sitting at a disk in the university Film Center. I'd prefer the second one, since it's only a fifty-cent difference in pay and there would be no commute and really no actual work.
The dining hall food is actually pretty solid here. Speaking of which, I'm hungry. Have a good day.
This is fantastic.
I walk out of my building and turn right and I can see the Empire State Building.
I am surrounded by the famous and the infamous and wonderful people on floors above and below. Last night I got my first applause in NYC, and tonight I'm going to see a Yankees game.
At some point my posts will stop having the tenor of an awestruck yokel, but I can't exactly promise when.
PS- Alyx- the number you gave me was wrong or I wrote it down wrong. E-mail me or come find me at Rubin. Rock.
PPS- No pictures or extensive posts 'till I have a computer. I'm in a gorgeous lobby. I just ate a street vendor hot dog. This rocks.
Our hotel is way too hip for its own good. But so am I so we're a good match.
I live here now. Crazy. Not at the hotel, although that would be hipsterama. In the city, which is a close second.
Tommorrow: Moving in. Meeting people! Standing in line for elevator reveling in lack of A/C! Duffel bag strap rendering right shoulder all-but-useless! FUN any way you spell it, although I recommend the traditional three letter standard.
I haven't slept much in the past three days, tonight I should catch up maybe.
Next time I write you I'll be an East Coaster.
With last goodbyes and a only a few hours left on the clock, all trepidation has burned away and I'm ready. Man, has it been fun. Man, will it be fun.
Once upon a time there was a man luckier than I am who had better friends than I've had.
Naw, just playin'. There's never been anyone like that.
It's sad when you realize you're not going to be part of the story any more. This house's, these people's, that girl's story.
But I guess if you did your job right, your absence is a story in itself.
You know that part of Fellowship of the Ring where Sam says "If I take one more step, it'll be the farthest away from home I've ever been?" That line always got to me and I never knew why. Now I do.
There's a very thin line between punkrock and pathetic.
For a while my wallet, bearer of coupons and identification and little scraps of paper with people's numbers on them, was punkrock. With its hodgepodge of stickers as meaningless as they were numerous, it was both a place to keep small bills and prom pictures and a big fuck you to the establishment. The establishment that said please do not put random sticky things you find on your wallet was no match for my determination to do just that, for seriously like four years.
But now I'm a little bit older, and the frayed black faux-leather ol' girl has slowly drifted across that thin line into Patheticsville. My old desire to break wind in the face of convention has given way to my new desire to not look like a total douchebag when I pull my wallet out to pay for something. So it is with a heavy heart I'm switching up my back-pocket lineup; a classier brown number one of my step-aunts I've never met got me for Christmas is now doing frontline wallet duty. Like I said, you have to cast aside your older selves. Including the things they kept embarrasingly small amounts of money in.
Goodnight, sweet billfold. May a flight of angels sing thee to thy rest, in a box in the garage full of sentimental old shit I plan to paw through when I'm gray and snaggle-toothed.
Remember when I said I wish I was busy? Right, turns out I could've been busy if I hadn't been putting off a ton of things I have to do by this Saturday when I leave. Now I'm busy whether I like it or not, yee-haw.
One of the things I have been putting off is answering Dana's five questions, which is apparently the latest LJ-cult thing. It's sort of like 50 Cent's song "21 Questions," only the questions are less asinine. ("Would you love me in a Bentley?" Of course. Women will love ANYTHING in a Bentley. Homeless stoner in a Bentley. One-eyed rottweiler in a Bentley. Hell, in the seat of one of those sweet babies, even a turd with a popsicle stick looks like marriage material.)
Dana asked good questions, and I'll try my hardest not to give copout answers.
1. what are you most proud of? Leaving the state, good financial sense be damned.
2. describe the best song. ever. The best song ever, you want to play for a girl you have a crush on, and have for a long time, and the song won't tell her expressly that, and neither will you because you haven't the guts, but just the fact that she's hearing it and feeling the same thing you have in response to it, that's enough. Almost.
Current best song ever nominee: The Decemberists, "Grace Cathedral Hill"
3. ok, it's five minutes until you go up on stage. what are you thinking/feeling? I am feeling like a badass and thinking "God I'm a badass." Seriously. Usually I think I'm such a badass I forgot a really important prop or forget to zip up or something. This is how my life goes.
4. after you're moved in, what's the first thing you're going to do in new york? (also: will you feed a duck in central park for me? :) please?) Probably sample the dining hall food, but that's not a very pleasing answer, is it? Hopefully ride the subway somewhere. I heart the subway.
And yes, Holden, I'll feed a duck for you.
5. do you believe there's one person out there who's meant just for you?
No, but I'm going to find her anyway. Does that make sense?
There's a gas crisis where I live.
This week VH-1 will be showing a series called "I Love The 70's" attempting to get you all misty and nostalgic for the 70's, even (or especially) if you didn't actually live through them.
Way ahead of you, VH-1. Phoenix already has the "NO GAS" signs and the people pushing their cars to service stations. All we need now is the Son of Sam and a button that says WHIP INFLATION NOW and we will have what I believe to be, from my limited understanding, a reasonable facismilie of the decade you and your legion of smarmy proto-celebrities are trying so hard to make us miss.
Some pipeline from Tucson to Phoenix broke and gas stations have been one by one running out of gas. The ones that are still open create block-long lines and the price is naturally exorbitant. Yet another reason Tucson, boil on the ass of the Copper State, should not be allowed to exist, much less hold the reigns on our gas supply.
If I was a writer of hackneyed editorials for the local paper, I would write something like:
The pumps at Phoenix gas stations were this weekend strung with yellow police tape, as if a murder had been committed. Indeed, in a way, it has: the gas crisis has killed our sense of complacency.
Then I would go on to talk about how this shortage has awoken people to the fragility of our petroleum-based society and how we should all ride scooters powered by lima beans, and eventually, for the stinger, bring it back somehow to the inherent evil of the Bush administration. Man would I make a good hackeneyed editorial writer.
But I'm not, unfortunately for all of us. And plus, nothing here is getting murdered. Just like the blackouts back East, this infrasturctural hiccup is failing to cause the sort of mass hysteria you can just FEEL people on the local news wanting it to. Case in point: last night.
Trevor and I are chillin' and about to go out to Chuck and Alecia's condo to get our Risk: The Game of Global Domination on. Trevor has just gotten off of work, his job being a busboy at a local Italian food place. He has made us a pizza to get six kinds of nasty on while we play Risk. We field a call from Chuck, saying he's not at the condo, he is instead in line outside a gas station, one of the only ones still open in Ahwatukee (our charming suburb.) The game is delayed; the gas crisis, as the hack writer would say, hits home. We rush to our friend's aid.
We find him at a Circle K with cars leaking out of it in two directions. He's about six cars back from the front of the line, and has had to get out and push every time the line moves, because either he's really REALLY out of gas or his truck has overheated. We pray for the first one while heat seeps from the air conditioning vents.
It could be way worse, line-wise. Behind us cars stretch out into the street, through a traffic light. Chuck's been here a while.
We eat pizza. Chuck skateboards barefoot. We listen to the Notorious BIG's greatest hits. Every so often, we have to push while Chuck steers, and when we get to a strangely inclined part of the parking lot and Trevor's inside buying a beverage a guy hops out of his vehicle a couple spaces back in line and comes and helps. Once we've pushed our way onto level concrete, I thank him and offer him some pizza. He says no thanks, no problem, and he'll help us again if we need it.
Chuck says he saw the guy behind us fingering his girlfriend, who's sitting in the passenger seat of their car, before we got there. Now they're just nuzzling. We agree that once they get their gas and go home, that guy is getting SO laid. Nothing makes the girls swoon like determination in times of trial, the ability to wait in line with gritted teeth 'till it all blows over. It's a Grapes of Wrath sort of thing.
There's a community atmosphere in the gas line. If I had a banjo, and knew how to play the banjo, I would conduct a folk-song singalong, or play requests. But instead the three of us just discuss Biggie and which dead rap star we would be if we had to choose.
Before we know it, we're there.
I give the last piece of our pizza to a Mexican lady in a van at the pump next to ours. They're rationing the gas or something, we can fill up all the way but it's coming out extra-slllllow.
An Indian guy in an ASU engineering sweatshirt comes up and asks us how many nozzles will they...how do you say in English? Gallons? we say.
Yea, he says, gallons.
As many as you want, we say, it just takes a long time. He wanders off, satisfied, and I couldn't be anymore in love with this country if I tried.
Moment of truth time: Will the car start or has it overheated?
Filled with super-expensive Tucson-grade petroleum, the Ford roars to life. Success.
We hop in the back of Chuck's truck. People who were in line behind us clap and cheer. We give them thumbs up and shout for them to honk if they hate Tucson as much as we do.
...but seriously, what's the deal with that Bush administration?
This is a scrap of paper I found in a used book I bought today.
The sometime owner of a softcover copy of John Updike's Rabbit Redux clearly did not have their priorities straight. I can't stress this enough, people: Pie comes before everything else. Pie is second to nothing and no one.
Bathroom...nothing makes the tedious chore of bathroom cleansing easier than the smell of pie wafting in from the other room.
Replant? I don't know, is the pie done?
Do chicken... Something about that disturbs me. The pie they were actually going to BAKE, the chicken, the chicken was just going to be done. Maybe the chicken wasn't for dinner. Maybe he just looked at somebody the wrong way.
THAT'S IT! That chicken is done. Right after I finish this pie.
Now you're catching on.
I long to be busy.
How anyone got referred here from the International Atomic Energy Agency is beyond me, but my referral logs claim it happened. There does not appear to be a link here on the IAEA website. What there does appear to be is pictures of the flags of many lands, and people in meeting rooms looking stern, like you'd hope people discussing suitcase nukes and fallout would look.
Delegates from IAEA Member States are meeting at the annual General Conference in Vienna in mid-September on major issues facing the Agency. Also being convened is a Scientific Forum examining topics related to nuclear power, safety standards, safeguards, and nuclear medicine.
Do you s'pose IAEA conventions are pretty buck-wild? Not the conventions themselves, I mean, which are probably lots of the above-mentioned stern-faced room-sitting, but the hotel? The IAEA after-party? These people spend their lives discussing nuclear annhiliation, fer chrissake, and if not that then how to get infentesimally small what-have-yous to dance just right so they split open and spill their precious energy. They have all taken more years of high-level math than years I've actually lived. These are people with some pent-up emotion, be it in the form of fear of nuclear terror or stone fucking boredom at their neutron-by-neutron careers. All I'm saying is the delegates probably run trains that stretch down the hallway when the day's brow-furrowing is through.
And can you really blame them? I can't. I'm not. I'm just wondering how someone got here from their website.
Maybe my blog has made the WMD watchlist, next to Iran and North Korea. In which case, you got it all wrong, IAEA. HFT is nuke-free in 2003. Once we became reasonably certain withering sarcasm was sufficient for neutralizing our enemies, we junked Sweet Georgia Brown (our incoherently named charmingly retro H-bomb) and chucked her in the backyard. Now she sits, sprouting glowing weeds and humming curiously, next to an El Camino up on blocks and an old refrigerator we keep meaning to take the door off of.
It's quite possible IAEA inspectors will trudge up the front walk and knock on our screen door. We're not worried, though. All we have to do is tell them that they have the wrong house, and all the isotopes and so-and-so are over at Shaina's place. Shaina is our slutty neighbor and will no doubt keep the perverts busy all afternoon while we head for the county line.
Life is tension. Pushing and pulling. That's how your muscles hold things up, how your car goes, why you stick to the earth. Tensing and releasing. That's all it is.
The tension on this blog is the desire to be achingly personal versus the dire to be commercial. In a way it's the story of my life. Should I be funny or should I be honest? I think comedy is truth and honesty is funny, but sometimes what I really want to say gets lost.
I had a very interesting IM conversation with Mina last night, about self-perception and all that good stuff. I told her humor is my currency, and it's the truth. People I think are funny are automically on a higher plane than everyone else, in my estimation. If we think the same things are hilarious, that means we view the universe in the same way and our relationship has somewhere to go. Humor is my coping mechanism, my way of ingratiating myself with girls, the skill I would bring to a crime-fighting team, should I ever find myself on one.
I have a pathological need to get people to laugh. Call me fat or ugly or stupid, fine, just don't call me not funny. Because stupidity, ugliness, morbid obesity, these things can be played for laughs. But not funny is just plain not funny (my entry in the Self-Evident Statement scholarship competition.)
And so I worry, am I being too self-serious on this thing? Do my problems amount to that proverbial hill of beans? If I make you laugh, will you stick around?
The last one isn't just the main question of my blog, it's the main question of my life.
Aww crap. Now every time I make a joke on this thing everyone's going to see it as some sick plea for approval. Which is only half-right. It's a sick plea for approval, not in the form of laughter, but in the form of nakedness.
The greatest approval of all.
All the high schoolers are going back to school today.
High school was great. I couldn't have had a better four years if I'd tried. People like to bag on it and I guess for some it's hell but they never take the time to realize it's the one time in your life when all your friends are legally required to show up at the same place every day, and you get to see them.
I guess if you didn't have any friends, that would be a problem, but man, did I have friends.
I don't think I'll become one of those people who over-idealizes it, though. Move on, Those People. Move on.
It feels right to move on now. It also feels right to go to sleep when everyone else is getting up to go back and to wake up when they'll be getting out, but that feels right for different reasons.
This is a good blog. Leave her comments.
"Aww, he's just like us," the mediocre will often say when trying to humanize those they are intimidated by, "that fella still puts his pants on one leg at a time."
This phrase does not apply to me, as I am inherently superior to everyone. In order to demonstrate, beyond the shadow of a doubt, this superiority, I have aquired the ability to put on pants two legs at a time.
Often my underlings, who I am forced to employ by the widespread unavailability of super-effiecient androids, will question my position at the top of the worldwide human pyramid. "Who does this guy think he is?" they say in hushed tones by the water cooler. While robotic technology lags, water-cooler-slash-sensitive-microphone technology has been making remarkable leaps in recent years. I hear every word.
To smother this baby insubordination in the cradle, I wield the pillow of fear. As is my custom, I summon the most uppity employee to my palacial estate. He must not know the route he took to get there, but sending a car for him is a waste of gas and puts unneccesary miles on my fleet of bulletproof handcrafted all-platinum (save for the diamond windows) limousines. Therefore the employee is guided by cellular phone instructions from my head manservant, Parsley. In order to make this particularly frustrating for the driver, Parsley speaks in a muted whisper and often pretends to be distracted by something on television.
Once the employee arrives, he is met by the doorman, who saps him on the head near the portion of the brain my private team of neurologists has determined contains the memory of directions to people's foreboding mansions.
When he awakes, he are in my bedchamber, sitting in a chair I had specially shipped in from Burma. The Burmese are world reknowned for their disregard for Western ideals of comfort and ergonomics, and for their tendency to forget to put all four legs on a chair that requires that many. Attempting to keep his balance on the Burmese fall-overer, as it is called, is enough to snap the employee out of his delerious post-head-trauma state. That, and the fact that I stand before him, wearing no pants.
If he stays sitting upright, demands to know "what in the hell is going on" quickly give way to protestations that he "doesn't swing that way," all the while averting his eyes from my indulgent silk boxers.
I yell for silence, and insist that I am quite heterosexual, and in fact my dalliances with all the world's most perfect specimens of femininity no doubt make his pitiable sex life look like a child's My First Heterosexuality playset, Ages 8-12. Then I have his treasonous remark played back over the bedchamber's sound system; in a sped-up manner that makes him sound like a chipmunk, if I am feeling particularly sadistic.
"So," I say, "you and your co-workers feel that you are every bit the man I am?" My god-like baritone bounces off the vaulted ceilings, and the mutinous dog begins to cover his eyes and look at the floor, having only heard the word "man" and "bits" and expecting, thanks my pantsless status, a "show of force" as it were.
"Parsley!" I say, "bring me the pants."
Parsley enters from a side panel, carrying on a gilded tray my finest pair of trousers. He walks slowly toward me, and I would have some ominous music played, but Parsley, like all good manservants, emits a slow and unnerving snare roll when there is tension that needs enhancing.
The trousers are laid before me, and Parsley scuttles from the room. I stare penetratingly at the employee, then at the pants. I have often considered hissing behold! at this point, but silence seems to be most effective.
I reach for the pants, and, in a manner incomprehensible to all but God and the being most closely resembling him on Earth (yours truly), put them on both legs at a time.
After witnessing this, one subject had an anuersym, keeled over, and died drooling on my zebra rug, which then had to be replaced (intensifying my search for Scotch-Garded zebras). The rest of them have been shocked into silence, and are driven in their own vehicles, blindfolded, by Parsley back to their residences. Parsley sees to it that they emerge from shock enough to open the doors to their houses, then takes a cab back to the estate.
The next day, the vacant eyes of their comrade tell the water-cooler chatterboxes all they need to know.
He is not like us. He does not put his pants on one leg at a time.
Sometimes I summon them even if they haven't said anything. It is really a very neat trick.
Tommorrow (read: today) is my last day at work.
I may, partially due to being really tired, have one of those epiphanies where I realize the shit job I was only working for so long because the hours were flexible was not, as I thought, a mind-numbing tedious demeaning craphole beneath me and most other bipeds, but instead a fufilling meaningful position, surrounded by the perspective-granting salt of the earth, that I'm lucky to have.
But it's not fucking likely.
Earlier I told a girl she was a "saint." Now I realize the proper thing to call her would be an angel.
"It has all the elements of funny," is something I've been saying lately when I hear something that can see funny when it squints and cocks its head but is not, in all actuality, funny. Tonight I wrote something that had all the elements of funny. They were all there, just in the wrong proportions, like this Country Tyme Lemonade I'm drinking. Eight Year Old Brother made a pitcher of it today, and sort of ish-ed the ingridients, as eight year olds are wont to do. I half expect that if I leave some in my mouth for long enough the powder will settle to the bottom forming a fine grit of off-brand imitation lemon and sugar on my bottom teeth. I deleted that shit. The thing I wrote, that is.
My library card is sitting next to the keyboard, and I was contemplating doing lines of Country Tyme powder, but I've never done lines of anything, except for coke off the buttocks of an half-concious mumbling Spaniard. I miss high school already.
I clearly need sleep, yes?
At age eighteen I will have an address that ends Fifth Ave., and that's not a Fifth Avenue that intersects a dirt road with no stoplight, or the one in lifeless downtown Phoenix, that's THE Fifth Avenue, like the one that runs through the Heart of the Universe, East Coast Edition.
People keep asking me if I'm excited. It's interesting, some ask, "Are you excited?" and some ask "Are you scared?" Yes, I say to the first group. No, I say to the second, my eyes looking whichever way they look when I'm half-lying.
Half-lying, because I'm not scared. Having a departure date (Aug. 23rd) gives it a depressing tinge of finality, though. A girl said something to me the other night that put it into perfect perspective, when I told her the date: "You're not supposed to actually leave." I know. But part of being the kid who's going to leave is actually, uhm, leaving. You, girl who said that, will only be missing one friend. I'll be missing twenty, easy.
I know I'm not allowed to be sad. First because I don't allow myself to be sad, period, ever. I'm on that Repress Your Emotions For Fun and Profit plan you sometimes see advertised on late night TV. Second because, like I said, fucking FIFTH AVENUE. Constant adventure in Metropolis. Gotham. I signed up for the dream and the dream came true.
I have loved this life, though. These past four years have been nothing but constant joy, when I was a goofy fat kid and when I was a goofy skinny kid. But I can't see the next four years being anything but wonderful, a different, maybe more potent kind.
And I wonder, in my way, the way that thinks being too happy is asking for disaster, are you allowed to love one life, leave it, and be just as enamored with your next one? It seems unfair to everyone else. Like I'm not being punished enough.
Then I look at my friends, and think, Oh...right. Leaving them is the punishment I was looking for.
Sorry to write about this so much and so solemnly. It's just all I'm thinking about right now.
My roommate's name is Justo, from Freeport, NY. We talked today. He's already at NYU for the Summer Session, studying for a major in biology. We came to the collective conclusion that we won't need a TV, because according to him there is always something to do, like poker at three AM in some guy's room. We had signed up for a triple room but lucked into just the two of us with more space and an extra bed.
Mark Twain used to live in my dorm. Not when it was a dorm, obviously, although I like the idea of Mark Twain in a crisp white suit passed out on somebody's crappy couch underneath a Dave Matthews Band poster.
Fifth Avenue, man. All emo-ness aside, it is SO fucking on.
Things I have learned:
You must constantly be destroying your old selves. You see that movie The One with Jet Li? That's okay, neither did I and neither did anybody else in the world, but I gather that the plot was Jet Li jumps through universe after parallel universe destroying alternate versions of himself. That is what you must do, only they're not in other universes, they're in this one, or they were, last year, two years ago, last week.
Your old selves, shoot them in the chest and let them fall to the ground. Don't make any attempt to bury them, they're compost: a couple parts will serve as nutrients for the soil, the rest is good for standing on.
If they have left things on your wall, let's say Having First Girlfriend You or Obsessed With Quentin Taratino You, tear it down. If you even hesitate for a moment on whether or not to keep it or throw it away, throw it away. Cackle mightily, but then sober yourself for a minute and look in the mirror and realize that someday you'll have to kill this You too. You will sell his clothes and the ones you can't sell you'll give to the Salvation Army. You'll sell his books and the ones you can't sell you'll sell to a crappier used bookstore. Maybe you'll keep a few. The idea being that every time you go through this cycle, you should be selling fewer clothes, tossing fewer books. With every old version of yourself you slaughter you should be coming closer and closer to the version you won't have to kill, the version that will just grow old and die.
Alecia's blog is deserving of your love and attention but you already knew that.
There are things I can't write about in here, any number of things for any number of reasons. Trevor and I were talking about this last night.
That's what sucks about your address, he said, you can't say mean things about people. This is true, I can't, but that's not what I really want to do, that's not what I wish I could do but can't.
I knew what I was in for when I put my full name on this thing. I don't regret it. Transparency, that's what it's about. None of this internet personality bullshit, if I take full responsibility for everything I write here...
...Ah, I don't know. I could claim it's about honesty, which it is, sort of, but the fact is it would be a different blog if my name weren't the URL. What it's really about is what ALL forms of interent journaling are about: Attention. If it was really, truly about spilling your guts regardless of who reads, you'd do it in a diary you keep under your pillow, not on a series of electrons that can be read anywhere in the world, by anyone who knows where to look.
So there's that.
I will write every day. That's less of a thing I have learned and more of a thing I am promising to you, Gentle Reader. What I have learned is that writing every day makes me a better writer. Look at Tony, dude makes daily newspapers look like a bunch of slackers with his definitive two-or-three times a day several-graf posts. I read things I was writing a year ago in my long-since vanished Open Diary and I think I was actually better then. That's far from a good thing. The only solution is to write lots, because no matter what you've heard about the quantity/quality ratio, lots of mediocre something is better than high-quality nothing.
I am thinking of putting that on a poster, perhaps below a picture of a crew team cutting through a crystal lake, or a bald eagle captaining a yacht.
While we're tripping on honesty, here's a picture Lauren took of me at Game Night on Sunday night. I'm the one in the foreground next to the 53-cent QT bevviridge.
This is Kept Expecting To Get Cooler Before College But It Isn't Happening Needs To Work Out More Do You Like My Hair? Me.
Someday soon, I'll kill him too.
Ask me what I did today.
No, really, go ahead, ask.
Yesterday I got the module that allows my Xbox to play DVDs (glaiven) so I today watched LA Confidential and Fargo while I took things off my walls and put CDs in boxes. I should really watch crappier movies while I try to do something productive, I kept having to stop and watch key scenes. I also watched several innings of the D-backs/Cubs game, two actual innings and five extra ones. The game I went to last week against the Dodgers went to exactly fourteen as well. Why does this keep happening? Because our pitching is divine but we've only read about this concept called "scoring runs" in books and magazines we've found lying around, is why.
All my friends went and saw American Wedding but I passed, thinking 2 sequels is probably too many for a franchise whose main vein of comedy comes from Jason Biggs stuttering, panicked while he attempts to remove his penis from various untoward things. That Jason Biggs is in some movies that can now be called a "trilogy" while I've only managed to get two chapters of my gay-robot saga made (Queerbots and Queerbots Return, With Faggy Berets) is enough to make me want to quit the imaginary movie business altogether.
My walls are blank. Stark, bare-assed naked. My brother will be taking over my room when I leave, which accounts for all the standing on chairs and pulling pushpins out of posters. They're all rolled up in one corner now, one giant uber-poster, because I can't find any rubber bands in this accursed house, for so bourgeoise are we that we take the ones that arrive with the morning paper and shoot them at peasants as they pass by. I'm not taking them to college with me, the posters that is. I want to look up at entirely different walls at night a month from now, so it will finally sink in, how far away from home I am, how much I have to prove.
If I need different posters to prove that to me, though, as opposed to all the tall buildings and cabs and cold weather, I am in serious trouble.
Twenty-something days. I can feel it breathing down my neck, sometimes the breath of a monster, sometimes the breath of a mysterious woman. I wonder if the monster will bite my head off. I wonder if the woman will whisper in my ear.
And if so, what.