Straight No Chaser

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here i'd written a long, abstract and (i thought) rather poetic diatribe, directed in alternating sections at marcus and professor strange, on account of their jointly shaping my day into something bleak and unrecognizable. hard to explain, though i did try, with the first draft of this entry. i lost momentum and chickened out.

aside from the six glorious days i spent at home, it's been a pretty miserable two weeks. again, i haven't the werewithal to get into it. if you want to know, ask.

frequent cell phone use is discoloring one side of my face. either that or i'm about to lose the war against my skin. no pimples for years, nothing serious, but there's something on the horion. my body is revolting right now, in both unfortunate senses of the word.

it's entirely my fault. everything. if i'd had three fifty in my pocket at ten o'clock tonight, i'd probably still be on a subway train now, bouncing back and forth between decatur and chamblee. i'm a stupid fucking idiot whose answer to everything is general ill-planned escapism. because after the initial run-away, then what? then i set up camp in northern atlanta, because the marta train only runs as far as the city limits; i sell all forty dollars' worth of sterling silver on my left hand (because the diamonds and sapphire are not going anywhere, starving or not, sorry) and maybe prostitute myself out a few times, just enough so that i don't die. i think i must have the survival instinct, for whose lack jigsaw despairs of the human race. otherwise i wouldn't have made it this far.

if not for my being so eternally preoccupied with marcus, it is quite conceivable that i could develop a...what is word...thing for somebody else. but you don't think about those things, you don't, both because you are preoccupied and because it's just not a good idea. you know.

non sequityr: strange has been given, personally handed, several installments of the island story, each standing in for a different missing component of my stupid class journal. she'd seen pieces before, and liked them; expressed concern over the adjective thing but was otherwise entertained. for the bigger assignment, i picked three chapters that, i thought, duly represented the whole of the story. first chapter, barf chapter, coconut piano chapter. she will say "tell me what you wanted to accomplish, here." i'll say "i don't know. it was fun." she'll give me a shitty grade and i'll love her even more.

christmas is coming. it should be a good one, because it has to be. for marcus: two cds he particularly wants; a handmade, collage-covered book of his own poetry, because it's his favorite; probably a book of someone else's poetry as well, because the poe compendium went over so well at probate time. for mom: scrapbooky stuff, not to steal from ernie but because it's the only hobby she actually upholds with any regard. for aunt susan, and this is my favorite: the mosaic collage i promised her freshman year, which i'll take to get framed at that african guy's place; a mixture of storebought and handmixed jazz cds with personalized liner notes, because she's long admired my knowledgeability and always asks for my recommendations. for chad: god only knows. krystle: god only knows. and so on and so forth.

aaron, i wrote your letter in between crying jags. you won't be able to tell, but i thought it worth mentioning. should arrive three days from whenever the bookstore restocks the gift i've picked out for you.