I spent Sunday floating around in Lake Lure with my faculty advisor and his other advisees. We played the dictionary game in his parents’ vacation cottage. Then, we listened to PJ Harvey for hours.
I hate that red stripe on the walls of Mitchell Hall. It reminds me of the bloody death of a small gray animal.
I suppose melancholia and depression are embedded in my jeans . My mother is a painter, my father a writer. It would be irregular if I were not this way. Being southern is an added bonus. Southerners are allowed to be all blubbery and pitiful like they’ve lost something. You know. Whoever’s the most miserable wins, right? If you’re miserable you get casseroles and your mom’s Junior League friends will bake and take care of you. But you have to be the right kind of miserable, I guess.
Denise and I are going to play guitar together tonight. I’ve almost been able to pick up a coffeecup with my fingertips and not feel it like P does and that proves how hard I’ve been practicing. We sound pretty good on “Fuck and Run” if I do say so myself. Secretly, I really wish I were in a band.