This semester, I’m getting a 4.0. I don’t care what you say or think. I want a freaking 4.0. I have side projects, twelve semester hours, five jobs and the motivation of a trucker in the desert, keeping his wits about him as air pressure and heat pound down upon his forty-ton, steel road machine. I’ve got the eye of the tiger, and this is the final countdown, and I don’t care who tells me no or don’t bother or why because I’m taking home a freaking 4.0.
Yeah.
On a different note, fifteen minutes ago, I stepped in something gross in the stairwell, and I don’t know what it is, nor do I want to look, so I’m pretending like it never happened.
I still need to return my rhetoric teacher’s book. I think I’ll stop by tomorrow. It’s called Deep Survival, and it’s about human evolution’s role in modern day society. The writing’s good—a little dry in some parts—but generally solid, and I’d recommend it to anyone who likes science because it’s factual and somewhat entertaining.
I’m stuck in a creative drought. Writing feels like starting an old engine because sometimes it runs, but most of the time it stutters and drops dead, but you can always replace an engine, and you can’t replace a brain. Maybe a muse needs to inspire me. I just read about them for Classical Mythology, and they always pop round to give a heads up or hello, so maybe they’ll visit soon. I don’t know, things are odd right now, and I think it’s because of the new semester, and everyone’s falling into place and getting used to the old environment.
This post will be random because I can’t think of any stories right now except for the brownie-thing I ate at breakfast today. Every time I eat this fudge-brownie-blondie thing, my stomach grows a little queasy, but I eat it anyway because it tastes good. Maybe it symbolizes my life, or maybe I just get nauseous easily, like the way I get with Papa John’s pizza. I mean, it’s not that I don’t like Papa John’s—I love them—it’s just that my friend, Eliana, and I ate Papa John’s as we watched Paprika, which nauseated me, so now every time I eat Papa John’s, I feel nauseous.
“I’m a horrible person,” she said (she isn’t. How could anyone who wants to host a Jewish girls segment on the radio with me be a horrible person?). “I scarred you for life.”
“No you didn’t.” She laughed. “I just feel queasy when I eat Papa John’s pizza now. It’s not your fault.”
“It’s all because of Paprika.”
“It’s just the colors and the motion.” I ate, but then set the pizza down because the thought of this freakish robot in the film made me sick.
“What’s Paprika about?” asked Molly (a journalist who wins every writing contest).
“It’s about this detective who enters other people’s dreams with this technological device, and then the device gets stolen, and the line between reality and dreams blurs.” Eliana glanced at the pizza “Do you want the last slice?”
“No, you can’t have it,” I said.
“I feel bad taking all your pizza.”
“Don’t. I feel queasy.”
“Do you want it, Molly?”
“No,” she said. Libby (who works at Hillcrest and got an awesome hair cut over break—short in back, long in front, brown) also denied the slice, so we gave it to Kelsey (who has fake candles that smell like pumpkin pie).
I’m also hungry because I didn’t have time to eat much today. I went downtown with Alyse (funny and wears large, rainbow-framed glasses) because I lost my textbook and had to buy a new one (I believe the old one was klepto’d), and I purchased tickets for Tattoo Girl (a play).
Yeah, that was pretty much my day. I also scored full marks on my quiz and wrote an essay and a play. Tomorrow, I have class, which will keep me fairly preoccupied, and then I have work on Thursday, Friday and Saturday.
Hoorah!