Hell with my other weekend plans.

I loved your class, Dr. T.

This entry is also called YOU People Figure It Out; I've Got Editors to Deal With. With Which to Deal. Whatever. I Don't Care Who Goes to the Free Movie.

On a sidenote...you know, I really don't have it in me right now.
I want ice cream. In celebration of tangible proof that my diaphragm works. Gross? No. Life-affirming. And across the street, so I will need a jacket.

"It's like we're spelunking instead of reporting." I helped Procrastination Guy file his bio copy correctly in Word today. It's probably the most competant I'll feel all semester.

We're going to be classy as shit, and maybe take a group picture.

In chronological order, I present my last 36 hours or so:

Seeing Brother yesterday shook me up, a lot. I didn't even realize it was him until he was gone. Distinctive Dr. B waved and smiled at me, so I waved and smiled back (what else can you do at a guy who teaches a class about Motown Divas and the Men Who Ruined Them? With that as a legitimate class title?) and thought nothing of the brown-haired hoodied person on his other side until I glanced at their backs and realized holy shit. That was Brother.
I stopped at stared at the air. They don't look alike except around the eyes and the bridges of their noses. But that's the closest live spotting to anyone who I could even begin to mistake as BF in a month.
It was bad. It made me high-step it to Psych lecture, breathing through my mouth like a winded horse.

"The card was going to be Dr. B making a fist and saying Merry damn Christmas. I thought it was genius."

After Psych, I almost literally ran into Bluetooth. Oh thank fuck he's actually damn cute in the sunlight. I ran back and punched him in the back of his big puffy jacket and walked away, all without taking my headphones off. I spent the rest of the day worrying he would take the punch as hostile and not high-spirited (Tough Actin' Tenactin, that's the nickname I was going for).

Brian the biofeedback counselor I saw looked like the opposite of the flowy, vaguely hippie women counselors I've seen up there. He was literally button-up, sweater vest and tie and angles. He said that he doesn't concentrate so much on the breathing part of biofeedback but more on the meditation part. After slouching in the armchair (hey, he said keep my eyes closed) with the heart rate clip hanging off my right earlobe and breathing inthroughmynose, ouththroughmymouth for what seemed like ever, I couldn't tell you the difference from the first breathing-centrtic appointment I had. It worked the same, too. Except when I thought about sex. That jacks up the competing nervous systems, apparently.
Brian said meditation's about accepting your emotions. Accept the fact that I'm insecure and want everybody's approval. And stressed. But mostly the first two.
"Welcome to the club."
It does make me feel better. I am insecure and want everybody's approval. Hear me roar.

OH MY GOD SUITEMATE SHUT THE FUCK UP. See? If I didn't want everybody's approval, I would have shouted that in her face last night when she came in our room and started yapping about what to wear tomorrow like it actually MATTERS if she's wearing a dress or jeans when a group of college kids are getting together without adults to tell them whether to dress business casual or not.
I'm wearing a skirt because I want to show off my badass heels and possibly get laid. I'd actually prefer if the rest of you bitches looked tore up from the floor up--for comparison purposes, you understand--but that just makes me, you guessed it, insecure. I'm regretting even hinting that I might wear something other than jeans, because that meant you spent twenty fucking minutes in my room bothering my studying roommate (okay, she didn't care. BUT I CARE IN HER PLACE.) and me by asking about outfits in your untrained violin voice.
That's what she sounds like, especially when she's excited (all the time): one of those beginner violin classes where the little kids can't do anything except scrape away the screetchies.

Humph. HUMPH I SAY. Today I was suppose to meet Katie for lunch because she can't come tomorrow because her boyfriend is taking her to see the Nutcracker...in some city that is not here. I don't know where. But she couldn't make it to campus on time, of which I was secretly glad because, and here's me being honest again, I'm a hermit and wanted to read while still letting Katie know I love her. Mission accomplished.

Also accomplished: ALL OF MY SCHOOLWORK EVER. No, not really. But everything for this semester. I presented my Theories of Mass Communications project (on commercial content in WWE shows--shut up. It was a tribute.) and got the fuck out of there. No more reporting class, which means no more hot Greek reporting professor with his hot Greek accent but also no more hauling around a slacker during group projects or swearing at unfamiliar multimedia software on an unfamiliar computer for six weeks or so.
I have exams, but in classes I'm doing well in. I have a final project, but it's not due until the 10th. Tomorrow, she is all mine.

Tonight was our last radio station DJ body meeting of the semester.

I've been waiting so long for an excuse to use this picture.

It was also my dorm's fall banquet. Guess which one I went to.
Hint: the fall banquet was always boring as hell even when I had BF to showpony me around to all the faculty associates and even when I had never seen him in a tie before. This year I would have to explain why he's not there. You see how well that went last night. Also, suitemate said she was definitely going. I won't be able to avoid her at tomorrow's party, so GIVE ME PEOPLE IN FANCY CLOTHES IN PEACE. THANK YOU.
The radio station meeting ended about an hour ago; since then, I've been holed up in the production studio listening to No Way Jose and then Beethoven on vinyl. I wanted to have an Epic Picks of Latest Show burning session, but apparently my CD drive is now nonexistent. Or it doesn't like Dinosaur Jr. (That better not be it.)
I'm hiding from the dorm people. The party will be ending at 9pm. I'm staying up here late enough to justify the "Yeah, I totally had this long-ass meeting...shucks and whatnot."
My rage is oddly non-confrontational.

Suddenly I'm exhausted. Bad sleep last night, presentation anxiety followed closely by counseling and the high/crash of dressing classy/realizing no one really cares has caught up with me.

Let It Bleed

I’m not much of a holiday person. Go ahead and give thanks, sure, but don’t make me say the blessing or eat turkey. Oh, dammit. Fine. Uncle Bruce? Tell me again why there’s no such thing as time, seeing as how it’s a human construct and everybody measures it relatively anyway. That’s a good one. Not as good as the one where you say everybody shouldn’t take everything so seriously, though—I actually believe you’re right there.

Can you tell me why everyone looks so small and grey this year? Including you. Good fuck, Mom’s right about you looking like House. Your head use to be too square, your face too clean-shaven, your body too stocky—not fat, mind you. You’ve never been fat. But now you’re scruffy-skinny. It’s weird and frightening. Stop aging and tell me again how you’ve been single since 1997 and don’t regret a minute of it. Tell me about being a happy cat guy down in Florida.

…Oh. Your cat died in May. Huh. I’m really sorry, man, he was a good one—

Want to hear about being a newly single (something about that word rubs me the wrong way, but it’s the best description; “independent” is too celebratory, “lonely” is too pathetic and only true in the deep dark part of my brain that died a little when I broke up with BF) undergraduate home for a long weekend of break from final projects and fuck buddy shenanigans? Okay.

Well, there’s not a hell of a lot to tell. I cried while looking at laptops on the Apple website. Dad thinks my next laptop should be a Mac, because I’m on the creative side of things.
BF is a Mac fanboy. For most of the time I knew him, he carted around a white plastic unibody Mac Book with those little dirty arcs worn in front of the keyboard by the heels of his typing hands. When it was stolen about a year and a half ago, he bought an aluminum unibody and named it Mr. West. After Kanye.
I was just looking at laptops and remembering the first time he had his dorm room to himself for the weekend while we were dating and we watched The American President with that Mac Book on our knees on his roommate’s futon and how I still have no idea how that movie ended because we got too busy making out, and I had to duck into the bathroom and sob for a bit to get a hold of myself. And hear, I’m tearing up again writing about it.
Those hand arcs just killed me. I took that plastic unibody to his college graduation for him. I can’t even remember why now.

I’ve talked to Mike, Bluetooth, and Suitemate through text messaging. I haven’t heard any of their voices all break. Bluetooth wanted to know if I have picture messaging. My thought process: Yes. *send* Oh fuck don’t send me a picture of your penis, dude. *receiving chime* …The den of your “island home” and a milkshake machine. *whew*

Suitemate on Facbook chat: Are you interested in [Bluetooth]? You totally don’t have to tell me, I realize it’s a personal question, etc etc etc.
Me: He seems nice, but I’m not looking for a relationship at all right now.
Truth. 

 I don’t want to deal with anybody else’s shit.
Right, Uncle Bruce? Right. Adios, ameba! I stole a Vega!