packing up
work is slow
so my mind is thinking. it’s horrible. i can’t think now, i just can’t.
it’s story time i guess.
–
Jean Paul was a charming kid of 22 years. If he was older, he’d be an alcoholic. But for now he’s a college student. Most stories about college student’s are about underage drinking, late nights of unprotected but somehow infertile sex, and mistakes that really don’t take much out of one’s life. Jean Paul’s, is not.
Jean Paul was the type of boy that people loved to hate. Truly loved to demise. They found his every achievement a result of other people falling for his scummy air of arrogance. Fools who fell for his faux non-swagger gave him promotions. But to his friends, Jean Paul was a tool. They’d seen him sleep with girls he knew he shouldn’t, and they’d seen him be wholly unable to control himself when he was feeling anything but on top of the world. Jean Paul’s story, his friends knew, was not one of a heartbreaker or a man even. It was a story of sustained difficulty, even in the face of great circumstances.
Jean Paul was in love. Madly in love. The type of love that takes great men and makes them whining, shaking idiots. But love …
–
edit, stolen from a friend named a.e.:
“
i’m nearly halfway through my last quarter at UCLA. has it really been one month since my hopes for her and me had suddenly been cut by latent incongruities ignored in our beginning? i realize that if we didn’t ignore them at the onset, i would never have explored the coves, the clubs, the diners, the restaurants, the parks, nor watched the movies, the shows, the concerts. not with the same smile at least. there are no regrets.
i just don’t know what to make of it. what to learn. i thought i did, but the more i think about it the more confused i become. if not for trying would we deprive ourselves of love knowing it were doomed from the beginning?
trying is trying is trying is trying and trying is working is working is working is working is marriage. what is irreconcilable? is there such a thing? we say, you’re you and i’m me and some parts of you i hate and some parts of me you hate, but i love you nonetheless. i’m yours forever. what they don’t tell you is how complex that really is. it’s a decision.
sometimes love is not enough.”
you’ve always been much stronger than i have. a better resistor, more capable. so really, i shouldn’t be surprised that i wake up with a sore throat that threatens to end me and you run off to pilates. but that’s what i love about you anyway.
take care of yourself, don’t let me make you sick too.
unlocked
…my tweets.
life’s been moving along, but i’ve mostly been holding onto it by random fingers grasping at the caboose as it runs away oh so quickly. weeks are a blend of beast, bruin, law, pre-law, sexual representation, and architecture. all of these things are good, in their own way, so the mix can’t be that bad.
the headaches are back, but it’s obviously just from a lack of rest. i’m hoping to find some mid days where i can just call it quits on the day and crash. won’t happen for awhile though. tomorrow promises trip to arch prof’s house then straight to beast then straight to a meeting which will involve long long elections. wednesday is law school early until class until law school later until meeting at a bar. thursday i’m a beast again and friday morning i will be savoring sleeping in. don’t call me on friday morning.
i know complaining is pathetic when the complaints are so mundane. but i just need to grumble and i’d rather grumble online (though i must get better at shutting myself up in public). no one likes the kid who is busy and hates himself for it.
the weather is gloom. i ordered a watch that i don’t need with a band i definitely don’t need. but maybe someone will like it and then i’ll smile and say thank you. maybe my smile will make someone else smile, or maybe my thank you will be greeted with a you’re welcome and the conversation will be over. in any case there is no need to socratize retail.
odd times. seems every day someone asks me when/how/why/what new york. i dont’ know when i’m moving. i have vague ideas about why. and i don’t want to talk about it. i don’t want to think about it.
i’m also tired of getting called small. when did people suddenly realize i wasn’t lew alcindor?
i wish i could read all day. nymag, the new yorker, i want it all. but i don’t want an ipad, so please don’t send one in.
back to the class discussion board that no one has posted on yet. slackers.
