Six: It's last Thursday. Huge sweaty lacrosse players walking home from practice in Cole Field House. One turns to the other and asks what he's doing tonight. His friend replies, "Well, I was actually going to check out the opera, I'm really curious about how they'll do Julius Ceasar... [beat] And then I'm gonna drink some beers."

Seven: It's this entire story unit in Creative Writing. A good portion of the class has written "cleverly disguised" true stories of this one night when they got really drunk and weird shit happened.

Eight: It's a few minutes ago. Leaving Easton, four guys tool on their friend, who is seriously smoking a cigarette on the way to the gym.

In other news The Fucker and The Cronie were steadily warming up to me, as intelligent people tend to do, but today they are demoted once more to Fucker and Cronie, after their reaction to my half-assed attempt to reconcile differences and throw an intelligent banter bone to them. Bastards. Naked Chick was pretty naked today and that scared me but she's still cool. Earrings Girl still baffles me. To no end. There's one in every class and she is it. You know the ones. The ones that just keep talking and no one knows why because they aren't making sense and being near them makes people uncomfortable because it's like their words are a stench that just won't wash out.

My story is being workshopped on Wednesday and I am terrified. It's not finished! It's not good! It's not even coherent!

Looking for quotes yesterday I stumbled across this:
It seems the more I write, the more introverted I become about it. (2/1)

And of all the things that have changed entirely in the past year, that truth has only deepened itself. Dammit.

ink :: graphite