there'll be no goatsongs. there'll be no marriage.
When my roommate is disturbed by things she's seen and learned and lived beside , she has hours-long, wonderful-to-eavesdrop-on conversations with her father that are mostly her storytelling/monologuing/ranting into a telephone receiver while she twists her legs into pretzel shapes over on her bed. She is upset that there is injustice in the world, and she's upset that her classmates generally fail to react to that with what she'd consider the appropriate sensitivity, gravitas, and renewed righteous anger. She's upset that she doesn't always know about all the bad things that happen, especially the ones that are the fault of human beings.
I'm waiting to register for classes via the internet. I'm wishing I were the sort of person who has a clear idea of what her perfect world would look like and is certain that she knows what ought to be done, what the very best thing would be for everybody. I'm wishing I got things done that weren't drugs, moping, and my peculiarly introverted and bookish brand of hedonistic self-indulgence. I'm thinking I'll fail. I'm always thinking I'll fail, but instead I just amble and stumble through life as a mild underachiever who never does anything very good and rarely does anything very wicked. Sometimes I think it's almost worse that way...
Oooh, but I'll be a senior next year, if I make it to next year (no, not if, Julia, when), and I'm thinking of signing up for the Great Books class which is just Here Is Some Excellent Literature, Now Read It. No class, and only two or three exams. And I would be reading...let's see...well, Borges and Calvino, for starters, and this time it would be because Borges and Calvino were my actual homework, and I am a giant nerd, wow. I'm about as nerdy as this:
