In the cafeteria, eating my frozen treat. I have a herculean art History book to read. It’s unopened, too big really. Somebody should’ve thought of that before they made it so…
Yesterday: “What are the dates of the Pyramids of Giza? Menkaure? Khafra?” repeated over and over. flash cards out the window. Wine did nothing. I’d be told the dates of Khafra and asked it again one second after, and I’d forget it, because I have fog in my brain, like I have now, which can only understand frozen treats, can’t see index cards although I do remember the cherry red lips uttering the dates of Khafra, Kufu, the Temple of Hatshepsut, over and over again, grilling me – then we watched Hell’s Kitchen (the Gordon Ramsey reality show) and that was good.
Last night: I twisted in bed in many configurations, even with 1.5 glasses of wine down (they don’t like me to drink it ‘cus I get red in the face, but God, my thoughts…) but “inspired” I said but really wired, by spending time with overachievers. The Korean in me connects with that, the displaced in me kicks myself multiply throughout connection, for not being like them. I want to wear a Johns Hopkins shirt. I want to have a Juilliard messenger bag. What I will have is lavendar hair, because of gay boyfriends. I will have soap operas because of fucked up friendships, multiplied by fucked up self and fucked up town. I will have a funny family that kills me, and not the loving mother and father that provides too still of a launching pad.
I love dinner parties.