Post 2. Two Agave margaritas and a shit-ton of drunchies in. Some things I love, and some things I hate.
Each person in my graduating class has two scenes to present for our final showcase. They’re all really good. And I really love mine a lot. We’re almost done.
Planning not to go out tonight, but deciding that 2 margaritas and the company of people who I care about on a very subtle, but very deep level, is waaaay more important.
Miniskirts and boots. And fuck you lady who looked me up and down and said, “You know it ain’t June yet, right?”
Early day drinking leads to early to bed sleeping, leading to early morning waking. I love it.
Serious bonding with a friend whose love is subtle and deep and really quite like mine. It takes a special friend to talk about our therapists in a Mexican bar.
Underclassmen who intimidate me, who then others tell me is really “so nice and so humble.” Oh yeah? Then why do I always feel not cool enough in front of her, and only her?
Food/drink has become a “THING” in my life. Hate it. Truly. I want to not care. I want to not dream of perfection and balance.
Wanting desperately to be sleepy when I’m not.
(this has nothing to do with drinking, PS, more to do with not having enough water/various food behaviors, etc)
And this boy who I’m trying not to fall head over heels for is not texting me back. That’s a major ass thorn in my side.
“Sometimes fate is like a small sandstorm that keeps changing directions. You change direction but the sandstorm chases you. You turn again, but the storm adjusts. Over and over you play this out, like some ominous dance with death just before dawn. Why? Because this storm isn’t something that blew in from far away, something that has nothing to do with you. This storm is you. Something inside of you. So all you can do is give in to it, step right inside the storm, closing your eyes and plugging up your ears so the sand doesn’t get in, and walk through it, step by step. There’s no sun there, no moon, no direction, no sense of time. Just fine white sand swirling up into the sky like pulverized bones. That’s the kind of sandstorm you need to imagine.
An you really will have to make it through that violent, metaphysical, symbolic storm. No matter how metaphysical or symbolic it might be, make no mistake about it: it will cut through flesh like a thousand razor blades. People will bleed there, and you will bleed too. Hot, red blood. You’ll catch that blood in your hands, your own blood and the blood of others.
And once the storm is over you won’t remember how you made it through, how you managed to survive. You won’t even be sure, in fact, whether the storm is really over. But one thing is certain. When you come out of the storm you won’t be the same person who walked in. That’s what this storm’s all about.”
–Haruki Murakami (Kafka on the Shore)
P.S. Anyone see that production in Chicago? Look closely at your program. I make a cameo.