(no subject)
Last night I dreamt of holding a girl so tight I could feel her bones poking beneath her sweater. I have to study for two exams today.
This morning Scott and Clara and Beth invited me to hike up the mountain that looms behind the campus. It's all snowed over and pretty enough. My boots have effectively zero traction so I grabbed onto Scott's backpack straps and he ran as fast as he could. We flew. Clara made a couple of jokes that fell kind of flat. Beth let out a little scared laugh every time her step faltered in the snow. There was nervousness. There is always nervousness when slipping means dying. On the way down we said hello to two policemen on giant black horses. Hooves made for trampling.
Friday Sam and Jonah and Zach and I crashed the party across the street in the art gallery. Everybody was French. The gallery is a converted warehouse. There was a huge, taking-up-one-whole-wall huge, painting of a jaguar's ugly mug. It was late and they were out of beer and we had to settle for cranberry vodka. But it was well made. There was barely any vodka in it. I like cranberry juice. I was drunk by that point anyway.
Met a girl named Claire who worked at the gallery. She tried to convince us to listen to her radio station Sunday mornings at ten. I don't understand French, I said. We play music, she said. So what is it you do, I asked. I put on the music, she said. What kind, asked Zach. [A vomit list of indie bands], she said.
Later the party degenerated into drunken Quebecois karaoke. Claire made us promise to come up on stage with her and I said what the hell, which she took to mean Yes. So up we went and somebody handed me a microphone and then the song started and I remembered I don't speak French. Out of the corner of my eye I saw Jonah hop off the stage surreptitiously. Zach shifted from one foot to another, drinking his cranberry vodka, looking uncomfortable and a little lost. Sam found a lampshade and put it over his head, and tried to light a cigarette. I said fuck under my breath, but accidentally into the microphone. Anyway, I said fuck it, and ended up singing oohs and ahhs for the entire song at the top of my lungs, having no concept of the melody whatever. I think people really liked us, actually, but maybe I was just drunk enough to think so. Who knows. She wrote her number on my hand. There's a party she knows of next weekend.
Really don't feel like studying for this exam. I'm going to watch The Twilight Zone and have a cigarette instead.
This morning Scott and Clara and Beth invited me to hike up the mountain that looms behind the campus. It's all snowed over and pretty enough. My boots have effectively zero traction so I grabbed onto Scott's backpack straps and he ran as fast as he could. We flew. Clara made a couple of jokes that fell kind of flat. Beth let out a little scared laugh every time her step faltered in the snow. There was nervousness. There is always nervousness when slipping means dying. On the way down we said hello to two policemen on giant black horses. Hooves made for trampling.
Friday Sam and Jonah and Zach and I crashed the party across the street in the art gallery. Everybody was French. The gallery is a converted warehouse. There was a huge, taking-up-one-whole-wall huge, painting of a jaguar's ugly mug. It was late and they were out of beer and we had to settle for cranberry vodka. But it was well made. There was barely any vodka in it. I like cranberry juice. I was drunk by that point anyway.
Met a girl named Claire who worked at the gallery. She tried to convince us to listen to her radio station Sunday mornings at ten. I don't understand French, I said. We play music, she said. So what is it you do, I asked. I put on the music, she said. What kind, asked Zach. [A vomit list of indie bands], she said.
Later the party degenerated into drunken Quebecois karaoke. Claire made us promise to come up on stage with her and I said what the hell, which she took to mean Yes. So up we went and somebody handed me a microphone and then the song started and I remembered I don't speak French. Out of the corner of my eye I saw Jonah hop off the stage surreptitiously. Zach shifted from one foot to another, drinking his cranberry vodka, looking uncomfortable and a little lost. Sam found a lampshade and put it over his head, and tried to light a cigarette. I said fuck under my breath, but accidentally into the microphone. Anyway, I said fuck it, and ended up singing oohs and ahhs for the entire song at the top of my lungs, having no concept of the melody whatever. I think people really liked us, actually, but maybe I was just drunk enough to think so. Who knows. She wrote her number on my hand. There's a party she knows of next weekend.
Really don't feel like studying for this exam. I'm going to watch The Twilight Zone and have a cigarette instead.