|
|
09.25.03 - 9:26 a.m. 1) people are always making out here, and if not making out, couples are stuck together like too much distance between them is dangerous. I thought southerners were the lovey dovey ones but here couples ask me, always, "Is it so much different here than in the south?" and then they, like, have to excuse themselves because its been seventeen seconds since their tongues were down each others throat. And not just lanky, Swedish couples (although they seem to occupy the highest percentage of "Couples Making out on Subway") but normal looking people and then, just, plain old unattractive people just marauding each others personal spaces everywhere you look. Maybe its in response to the plethora of strangers that you are surrounded by everyday and if youre lucky enough to have someones shoulder that you know well enough to rest your head on, then you feel obliged at all times. 2) Cell phones. Everyone is on them. In the library--the last hallowed place of ringlessness--i am typing next to this fiery asian girl ranting ranting to some poor soul and i just want to kick her, but i dont. Instead i go on to say that i am constantly bumping into people on the street who could walk directly into the road as involved as they are in dialing dialing dialing. I would throw away my cell phone if it wasnt the only thing i had that projected my voice to all of you. 3) Halter tops: If i see one more bellybutton i will just lose it. And again, not just the lanky sweeds... I cant wait for winter simply to put an end to the trend for a few months. And on the opposite end of the spectrum, the amount of students dressed in sweatshirts while even the Halter Top Regime sweats in their clothelessness. I guess halter tops and sweatshirts are in style, as is making out with your 5'3" boyfriend in the closing-doors of the subway i am trying to get on in my filthy jeans and the tee-shirt youve already seen me in twice. Maybe once i can access my clothes i will hate people in halter tops having sex, less. In other news. Still no house. There is a path from the door of my room to the bed that i make every morning and evening, in between packed up books and half unpacked boxes of tee shirts and decorations and other mysterious boxes that i am regretting titling "STUFF" because it means that i have nine boxes to choose from when trying to locate something title-less like, you know, my rosary or staples or extra toothpaste. Im ineffably tired of looking for a new apartment and trying to be a graduate student and trying to do general staying alive things like showering and commuting and eating all at the same time. And eating, as we have no money and nowhere to store food we end up eating ramen noodles and burritos and free-refill Giant Gulps full of 1/4 Mr Pibb and 3/4 Diet Coke. At night im either completely whacked out on caffeine and sugar or comatose from too much peanut butter. And in the morning i have to try and find jeans that arent just embarrassingly filthy and a tee shirt that i havent already worn that week and step over whatever messy haired band members are left over from last night's show and whatever spilled alcholic beverages had lulled them asleep with their shoes still on. Then i endure the hour long commute to school with 5,000 school children who happen to be required to be on the subway to school at the exact same time i am and then teach 15 still drunk undergrads why so Much Depends Upon a Red Wheel-barrow. I jest, you know, all in all things are surprisingly bearable and you learn how to make a splurged for taco salad the highlight of your day and everynow and then you decide to fuck it all and go see the ravonettes at the black cat and you get to pass by the washington monument and remember that you are indescribably lucky to be in this city and go to school and wear the same tee shirt over and over and over again. I am writing press releases for the Washington Post, that is neat, and the windows in my room are so designed that a near perfect breeze visits every early morning when i make it into bed. What else? My mom is sending me blue jeans from the Gap in chattanooga ("size twelve! Long and Lean! Stretch!" she yells into the phone trying to record these facts and amazed into vocal repetition by the fact that one pair of jeans can have so many descriptive adjectives and terrified shell choose the wrong pair). (And i say this in a tiny little voice, afraid to ruffle any feathers of fate in the wrong direction, but by monday i think we may have a house if our 23 year old, nonexistent credit slinks past the better judgement of one Paul Arnold, Real Estate Agent to Graduate Students and the Abandoned Aging. Its a perfect little house too far away from the metro for comfort but only two bedrooms for only the two of us and a porch and a room for you when you come to visit and a yard and a bathroom without the copious amounts of pubic hair that boys seem to produce, and a kitchen that houses a dishwasher(!) AND a washer and dryer AND one of those fabulous old refrigerators that bryon would steal the door from and glitter jesus to and hang in lulus. Please keep your fingers crossed and if you pray, do it for us, in a quiet way as not to ruffle the aforementioned feathers.) hope all is well with the whole of you. thanks for all of your replies and good wishes. i expect long and expository replies in return for this email which shouldered a nice size dent in the "Time Allotted to Fuck Around" section of my planner. love, and love. klm � 
|