onetwothreefour
Everybody's making an update about what life at college is like. I guess I will too.
So tonight,
I was standing in Famiglia's, an amazing pizza place two blocks down Broadway, having just returned Harold and Maude to Blockbuster (a day late), ordering pizza at 10 in the evening with a 6 foot 4 curly-haired bass player in a blazer and a highly abstract teddy-bear drama major with mutton chops. A short while earlier I saw Karen Finley shouting about Terri Schiavo and Laura Bush to all the freshman art students while sitting directly under the professor whose class I had skipped earlier today (first one since I've gotten to college). I hadn't done the hefty amount of homework for the class over the weekend because I spent it oddly with my parents, and at the time of the performance I still hadn't done it, despite having a shortened ITP class due to the midterm exam (probably got a B) and my first scene crew appointment being cancelled.
Anyway, I was standing there looking at a picture of some guy shaking Bill Clinton's hand when I turned to Steven and said, "I'm happy."
"Why?"
Not sure, I'm under a lot of pressure and going through many types of frustration, I'm far from my family and my cat, my friends are throwing me curveballs and I don't know what I want.
Still, there's an odd sort of sense of idea of satisfaction simply existing in this world, this life, this neck of the woods, this city this town, this street, these people, and while I'm never completely comfortable, I still miss one person if I haven't seen them in an entire day, and we still dance to The Police in front of the neighbors across 10th Street.
When I got back to Brittany, I divided my time between pretending to study, cuddling to the distant sounds of Queer as Folk, and going into the hallway to giggle over a MacBook speaking dirty words to the RA.
And many times I'll think,
"If you could only see me now."
So tonight,
I was standing in Famiglia's, an amazing pizza place two blocks down Broadway, having just returned Harold and Maude to Blockbuster (a day late), ordering pizza at 10 in the evening with a 6 foot 4 curly-haired bass player in a blazer and a highly abstract teddy-bear drama major with mutton chops. A short while earlier I saw Karen Finley shouting about Terri Schiavo and Laura Bush to all the freshman art students while sitting directly under the professor whose class I had skipped earlier today (first one since I've gotten to college). I hadn't done the hefty amount of homework for the class over the weekend because I spent it oddly with my parents, and at the time of the performance I still hadn't done it, despite having a shortened ITP class due to the midterm exam (probably got a B) and my first scene crew appointment being cancelled.
Anyway, I was standing there looking at a picture of some guy shaking Bill Clinton's hand when I turned to Steven and said, "I'm happy."
"Why?"
Not sure, I'm under a lot of pressure and going through many types of frustration, I'm far from my family and my cat, my friends are throwing me curveballs and I don't know what I want.
Still, there's an odd sort of sense of idea of satisfaction simply existing in this world, this life, this neck of the woods, this city this town, this street, these people, and while I'm never completely comfortable, I still miss one person if I haven't seen them in an entire day, and we still dance to The Police in front of the neighbors across 10th Street.
When I got back to Brittany, I divided my time between pretending to study, cuddling to the distant sounds of Queer as Folk, and going into the hallway to giggle over a MacBook speaking dirty words to the RA.
And many times I'll think,
"If you could only see me now."