Tales from San Diego
So I moved onto campus this Saturday, having spent the preceding week illegally residing in David and Garret's apartment. The rooms were nice and the video-games were plentiful; the lack of food was disconcerting given the polished kitchen. Very little was accomplished over this period. Reading, gaming, moving from one entertainment to the next in a mad quest to consume it all before life hit like a sickening realization or an unavoidable virus.
Move-in was a simple affair of greeting old acquaintances, struggling to remember names lurking on the edge of memory, giving directions of disoriented first-years, and of course trudging endlessly from the peripheral parking lot to the centrally located apartment.
My room is a walk-in closet-sized space with peeling paint and regularly spaced nail-holes in the walls. The furniture is set up so that you can't open the door without hitting the bed or sit in the desk chair without squeezing past the dresser. I feel like this room would be better located in the grimier district of a sprawling city, over a midnight railroad track or a den of ill-repute.
The roommates are Stephen, the quiet, brooding, romantic interest of Magey; with them I watch CSI; Gino and Justin, who room together and speak only between themselves; Jin, the atonal Korean from last year. A quiet and acceptable bunch, good.
Went back to the cafe yesterday for breakfast, and nothing's changed. New buildings have gone up, new landscaping on the quad, but the cafe is the same. Same people behind the counters, same greeting, same tea and danish, as if summer never happened. The world can slowly fall apart; the coffeehouse will remain.
Spent most of this morning in the UCSD bookstore reading introductions and prefaces, losing interest before the story. Strolled to the library to pick up some Hemingway, but was distracted and got Lovecraft instead.
Classes start in three days.
Move-in was a simple affair of greeting old acquaintances, struggling to remember names lurking on the edge of memory, giving directions of disoriented first-years, and of course trudging endlessly from the peripheral parking lot to the centrally located apartment.
My room is a walk-in closet-sized space with peeling paint and regularly spaced nail-holes in the walls. The furniture is set up so that you can't open the door without hitting the bed or sit in the desk chair without squeezing past the dresser. I feel like this room would be better located in the grimier district of a sprawling city, over a midnight railroad track or a den of ill-repute.
The roommates are Stephen, the quiet, brooding, romantic interest of Magey; with them I watch CSI; Gino and Justin, who room together and speak only between themselves; Jin, the atonal Korean from last year. A quiet and acceptable bunch, good.
Went back to the cafe yesterday for breakfast, and nothing's changed. New buildings have gone up, new landscaping on the quad, but the cafe is the same. Same people behind the counters, same greeting, same tea and danish, as if summer never happened. The world can slowly fall apart; the coffeehouse will remain.
Spent most of this morning in the UCSD bookstore reading introductions and prefaces, losing interest before the story. Strolled to the library to pick up some Hemingway, but was distracted and got Lovecraft instead.
Classes start in three days.