“She had an immense store of trivial memories and when she wasn't living in the future she was living in the past. As for the present - she got through that as quickly as she could, running away from things, running towards things, so that her voice was always a little breathless, her heart pounding at an escape or an expectation.”
I feel like shit.
Should I have studied for this exam? Probably. Do I care? Not really. I got an A- on my Brighton Rock paper, which by all rights was a solid C Paper. Odious Dr. K wrote a condescending note on the back that I think he thought I’d care about. I don’t.
I’m having my fourth cup of coffee in the car in this parking lot where I’m chainsmoking so I don’t have to talk to anyone in the student center. I’ve been writing this short story in the margins of my Norton Anthology about a God showing up at the Chik-Fil-A in the food court. Deus Ex Machina is on the mind, probably because I never actually bothered to drop that Greek Tragedy class. I haven’t been since September. What sort of irony is the tragedy of failing a class about tragedy that you were too lazy to drop?
I have to sit around in curlers so I can be vain and girly and conform to some notion of who I’m supposed to be so I can have dinner with Dad. I wish I could shave my head but I have a giant mole and I’m too fat. I should be cleaning my room and taking yonder bowl of yesterday’s dried and crusty oatmeal to the kitchen where it might get washed because it’s clear MRWHM’s cat is not going to eat the remains.
I went to Time After Time today shopping and bought a new outfit for $8. There was a beautiful boy working there who had planets and waves tattooed on his arms and he told me that he’d sort of wanted the sweater I bought for himself and I thought that I kind of bought the sweater because it reminded me of what a boy I might like to date would wear. He was one of those dark-haired angled boys with crazy light colored eyes and I might have swooned if I’d stuck around for much longer.
MRWHM is watching talk shows. Ever since she quit her job, she’s been spending all of her free time at the house talking shit about me on the phone to her psycho ex boyfriend while I’m in the next room and watching daytime television. I’ve rediscovered my old habit of driving around town for hours when I want to be alone and listening to the music she makes fun of me for liking. Confession: I actually really like Superchunk even if only because it reminds me of people that aren’t speaking to me anymore, even if I do have to hide my copy of “Foolish” in a Minor Threat case so MRWHM will lay off about the indie rock when I give her a ride to class. I’m can still see the remains of her “Fuck You, Poser” graffiti  scrawled on my bedroom door whenever I answer the telephone.
God, I hate this hair color. It makes me look like an anemic eggplant.
 Actually taped inside journal: “Alison—Once again you demonstrate your capacity to write intelligently, vigorously and extremely irritatingly. Do you have this effect on all your professors? Forgive me, but you write with genuine flair and effective energy and that makes the odd constructions, impossible word choices and various self-indulgences (eg, your retrograde fragments and frankly bizarre digressions) harder to take. I have the sense you think you are a really excellent writer (clearly your fragments are part of a style) whereas I’d say you have a lot of gifts as a writer and also have lots to work on. Or to put another way: you need to learn how to control those gifts much more. Could we talk??” Across this note, in my hand: “Not bloody likely, you oily fuck.”
 Lost to history. In those days, I suspect the god would have been Dionysus, though.
 Also not an exaggeration.
 Also not an exaggeration.
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