my sweet. both of the e-mails you sent me finished with "lol." i will look past this. because
we should totally live together next year!!!,
you said with enthusiasm in your eyes, and a vodka drink in your hand.
you would be, like, my #1 with a cherry on top pick for roommate, with out a doubt, hands down, lights off, best friends, cold shower, root beer float, hamlet minus hamlet
i just didn't know you wanted me.
"hey what's up?"
hey nice haircut, babe. you're always running away. and my lust always follows you right into your kiss that would inevitably taste like cigarettes. if i don't burn down this whole campus five minutes ago, our paths will cross someday. you will spend the night in my room and and we will listen to music until we can't sit up anymore when we will fall asleep on the floor in the clothes that we have neglected to change for days. and still one more. i've barely taken off my newoldimpulsebuyonanimpulsetriptobrooklyn wrinkled blouse and my one only one image of you lately is that red-with-the-green plaid button down.
depending on how you look at it, i am much better off than i was this time a week ago. i am causing less chaos for my poor sweet suitemates and i can remember everything that happened tonight. but i am also wedging sugar in between my teeth and the important parts of my arteries. you win some,,,,,,you lose. sum. i'm not trying to start anything here, except a theatrical revolution, but i lack the perspective at present. and the free time.
but not the whimsy. that flows through my immature swim legs in spades, in the places where the cartilage packs into the bones. whimsy is not my revolution.
why are there still plastic easter eggs populating my desk?
could someone get me out of this self-centered tunnel vision please?
could i have a best friend. dear future roommate, do we want to make this work. dear future co-chair, it's for the best that you have a girlfriend, let's save the world and blow some minds. dear fellow Melancholic, it's official and thrilling, hold my hand, we'll dive first into surreal female love experience.
next year i'm inheriting TWO student-run theatre companies on campus. TWO. one has an awesome reputation, one has a cult and the kind of reputation and disdain that comes with a cult.
i don't even know why i like theatre. i don't know why i want to make it. i don't know why people do make it. i don't know why theatre is so dorky and exclusive. why the punks don't make theatre. I SHOULD NOT BE INHERITING THEATRE COMPANIES BECAUSE ALL THEY GIVE ME ARE IDENTITY CRISES. i want them. i love them. i hate them a little bit.
next year is drawing closer and closer. i want the summer so bad i could pull my hair out. but at the same time, i just want to plow on through, non stop, keep going, no summer, in and out, sophomore year
and then i can leave.
for some reason, my mind can't comprehend past sophomore year,
figuring that, after that,
i'll just be done. i'll just leave. twenty is old enough to not be in college anymore.
hell, any age is old enough to not be in college.
i just want to start building a world already.
okay, someone crush my idealism and do my laundry.
it's makin' me sick.