'i'm so sorry but the motorcade will have to go around'
The heat. Oh, the heat. I'm sweating, eating tuna. I'm exhausted, but it's only natural. It seems as though the end of the week has in fact been, every day of this week. I'm not really overwhelmed, I guess it's just the uncertainty of figuring out this new schedule, this new (in fact old) way of living. I love my room, and the roommates aren't half-bad, in fact it's all gorgeous. I'm graduating this year, easily, and most likely with a French minor - something I learned today. I fixed my bike up with the works yesterday. A light, a lock, and a bell. All I need is a basket, those frilly things off the handle. I wish I had a bike like this one in France. I miss France. I think it will only get worse with time. But, I'm fashioning my return, a year teaching english, the peace corps can wait, I need to slow down. Breathe. Grow old. I keep whirling in these moments, singing something in my car, losing myself in these freeway squints, thinking that time is moving even faster now that it's almost over. And after I write I always need to sleep, never solving anything in these movements. Not understanding writers who say they can clear their head, make sense of things, feeling that I've complicated things, lost things, moved things around, chased things that are always in front of me, even while behind me. I just need to keep singing. And bike riding. I think I'm going to break in the Cabo Cantina down by the Balboa pier, a nice cool night bike ride and a margarita. I'm decked out, fixed. Trying to sit still when I read, losing myself down the hallway, hanging out in Ryan's room, laughing with Mike, drinking light beers. This is the uptake, the hit, the set-up. The party is just beginning, and the canvas is clean. Everyone's waiting to see the mess we'll all make. Our last year of sliding in nonsense, believing in ideals, saving trees, vomiting, burning. I'm feeling hot, wanting to lay down. Taking a drag of this life.