STEP INTO MY OFFICE, BABY

I'm coming to realize that, while my attention to image-making is a very positive thing in my writing, it can be extremely destructive when it seeps into my personal life (as it often does). While there's something playful and almost brave about constructing your personal experience as filmic, it can create ridiculous expectations. What do you do when the streetlights don't turn on the moment you step off the bus with your suitcase? Where is the twinkling soundtrack?

I'm thinking about this now because this is my first day at a new job. If you know me, you probably know what that means: pencil skirt, ponytail, eyeliner, big sunglasses, legs crossed at the ankle, no slouching. Working gives me the framework for playing around with numerous Girl Friday aesthetics, but where does it leave me? (Well, it leaves me with an awful lot of office experience and a list of references that would make you cry.) But in the more emotional (and pragmatic) sense, it leaves me in the parking lot, kicking off my high heels, lighting a cigarette, and driving home listening to Biz Markie. That's not a bad thing at all, but it creates a kind of break from the game I'm playing, a moment of crisis in a way. (But wouldn't the perfect 9-5 girl kick off her high heels in that impetuous way, wouldn't she smoke a cigarette and tie her hair back with a scarf?) You begin to see the problem. It isn't so easy for me to convince myself that I'm really just playing around. Is this my life? Why Aquanet? Que? Pardon?

Hello, Hunt Library Video Collection; how may I help you?

GO AND MOVE TO BROOKLYN WITH YOUR ACID WASH HAIRCUT

Why are there so many freshman? Why do so many of them, on first glance, look exactly like students from Governor's School? Maybe I should ask instead why I seem so crotchety and mean, or why I've suddenly taken to gumming on composition notebooks until they're nothing but a curd of chewed paper caught in my incisors.

Instead, I'll use my Virgo-Libra charm to snap up a widely unavailable job at the library's video collection and give out my phone number, plan my birthday party. Catch as much of this upbeat, catchy sarcasm while it's still fresh and (hopefully) charming.

A THESIS RUNS THROUGH IT

And so begins my Senior Honors Thesis: one black and white composition notebook, one pen, one copy of WINTER STARS by Larry Levis, one copy of BLACK MAGIC POETRY 1961-1967 by LeRoi Jones, one copy of GHOST MONEY by Lynda Hull, one copy of THE ROUTE AS BRIEFED by James Tate, one copy of THE SELECTED POEMS by Robert Creely, and one copy of that four-inch-thick COLLECTED POEMS of Robert Lowell. As you can see, I don't pull any punches.

YAWN, YAWN, YAWN, WE'RE ALL LONG GONE

Rachel and I went to the dollar store for the rest of our back to school needs, don't you know, and ran into Maya in front of the video store. It was really nice to hang out on a stoop with the girls and chainsmoke. You know. I don't know how I feel about being a senior. It seems like so many people have left town and I'm feeling a little old, to tell you the truth. Which is ridiculous, because I'm 20.

Last night we Wightman girls went to a luau at Sig Ep, hung out with Adam, and met his sister Megan (who rules, rules, rules, by the way!). It was a really lovely evening, and so great to see Adam again. We need to do this hanging out thing more often. And I need to do that wearing-pumps-all-night-and-standing-around thing a lot less often, unless I want to reduce my feet to bloody stumps. Whatevs. Sometimes, you've just got to overdress, you know?