GOODBYE TO ALL THAT
So, this is what you get for taking the typical bohemian breakfast: pot of coffee, cigarettes: some shaky hands, a strange outfit, and a particular feeling that the day will be, if not dreadful, at least interesting. Somewhat.
I've recently had an amazing run of free time on my hands--well, not really free because I could always, always work on my research paper or devote some more time to my thesis. But, for lack of any immediate deadlines, free. But sadly, I have been the only one with such freedom, and the last few nights have been spent in solitude, in my bedroom, in a way that indicates I am 16 all over again. You know, applying eye makeup, putting my hair up with numerous bobby pins, dancing to girl groups and idly making lists in my journal. Not a bad way of spending a few days, right, but kind of wistful. Maybe my ability to keep it together will suffer greatly toward the end of the semester, but I don't think so. I seem to be able to play along pretty well, even though I know my head is different and the looming prospect of my final grades doesn't really matter as much anymore.
Sometimes I miss the hazy confusion of last fall semester. Say what you will about my mental stability or my general health, but I could always find somebody to go to the bar with me. Why does it seem as if I had so many more friends last year? Could that be true? If it were true, I doubt I would have had such a hard time convincing myself that people liked me. I did have a hard time with that. Maybe I just had a lot more facetime with the kinds of company you collect when you spend a lot of time at the bar or at parties. I once loved parties, and I would knock myself out to go to them, even bad parties, even the awful kind where, as soon as you walk through the door, you see a pile of smashed chairs littering the floor. Now, I find it difficult to convince myself that a party is a good idea. I am feeling a little too lazy (almost) even to attend my own party this evening. Well, that is, if it happens at all. This remains to be seen because the person throwing it for me suggested a cancellation early this week and hasn't returned any of my phone calls since. I could treat this as a hilarious circumstance, one which attends only lives as silly as my own, but only if I had the remove of someone brilliant (say, Joan Didion). Joan Didion could take this circumstance and make it into a wonderful speculation on her own life.
So, this is what you get for taking the typical bohemian breakfast: pot of coffee, cigarettes: some shaky hands, a strange outfit, and a particular feeling that the day will be, if not dreadful, at least interesting. Somewhat.
I've recently had an amazing run of free time on my hands--well, not really free because I could always, always work on my research paper or devote some more time to my thesis. But, for lack of any immediate deadlines, free. But sadly, I have been the only one with such freedom, and the last few nights have been spent in solitude, in my bedroom, in a way that indicates I am 16 all over again. You know, applying eye makeup, putting my hair up with numerous bobby pins, dancing to girl groups and idly making lists in my journal. Not a bad way of spending a few days, right, but kind of wistful. Maybe my ability to keep it together will suffer greatly toward the end of the semester, but I don't think so. I seem to be able to play along pretty well, even though I know my head is different and the looming prospect of my final grades doesn't really matter as much anymore.
Sometimes I miss the hazy confusion of last fall semester. Say what you will about my mental stability or my general health, but I could always find somebody to go to the bar with me. Why does it seem as if I had so many more friends last year? Could that be true? If it were true, I doubt I would have had such a hard time convincing myself that people liked me. I did have a hard time with that. Maybe I just had a lot more facetime with the kinds of company you collect when you spend a lot of time at the bar or at parties. I once loved parties, and I would knock myself out to go to them, even bad parties, even the awful kind where, as soon as you walk through the door, you see a pile of smashed chairs littering the floor. Now, I find it difficult to convince myself that a party is a good idea. I am feeling a little too lazy (almost) even to attend my own party this evening. Well, that is, if it happens at all. This remains to be seen because the person throwing it for me suggested a cancellation early this week and hasn't returned any of my phone calls since. I could treat this as a hilarious circumstance, one which attends only lives as silly as my own, but only if I had the remove of someone brilliant (say, Joan Didion). Joan Didion could take this circumstance and make it into a wonderful speculation on her own life.
