Tirade of the Day

Obviously, I do like him.

This fact occurred to me (too late, of course) sometime after I told him that I didn’t want to commit to anything, and that it was up to him if we kept seeing each other because I didn’t want to lead him on.

I keep thinking up odd stuff that I forgot to put in earlier entries; yesterday in class, for example, I was sick, and we had this whole-class peer review thing, of three pages of one of Dean’s short stories, in fact, and then a poem another girl wrote.

Well, as I was quite ill physically, at least, and a little strung out emotionally, I just…sat there, with my head down on the desk.  I was listening…sort of.  And at the end of class, L’Owen looked around and said, “There are six minutes left…and I know there are a couple people in here who haven’t said anything this whole time…who are they…?”

I did a quick scan and saw that there were only two of us who hadn’t spoken, and…he was bound to notice that.  So I raised my hand to get it over with.  I figured if I sacrificed myself, it would be a lot better for me than letting him call me out.

“GINNY!” he said, grinning with delight.  “You haven’t said one word today; you’ve been slouched down there in your seat, and somehow we’ve completely missed you!  Well, Ginny, you’re going to talk for the next six minutes.”

I stared at him.  (I was stalling.)

“Go on!” he said.  “Let’s hear what you’ve got to say; there must be something.”

Well, we were on Dean’s story, and I sort of…glanced at him sideways, and then I said something.  I have no idea what it was.  All the comments I’d thought about making had already been hashed over.  I really don’t know what I said.  It may have been relevant, maybe not.

I said something that I knew he’d have to defend, and he did, and I responded with something (I seriously do not remember what we were talking about) and I’m sitting here thinking, Is this an argument?–I think we’re arguing.  He hates me.  He so hates me.

Anyway, after the events of yesterday and today, by the time I got to work, I was considering calling him immediately after to tell him that I am sorry, I’m stupid, I do like him, and I don’t want to stop seeing him.  That is the point I had reached.  And Michelle and Adrianna thought this was a good idea, too.

Then I talked to Sandra, who scared the hell out of me.

Sandra’s opinion on it all is that if he respected what I’d said to him, then he’d still want to be friends and things should go on pretty much like normal.  The fact that he is now basically shunning me, she thinks, shows that he only wanted me for one thing, and since he knows he’s not going to get it, he wants nothing more to do with me.

I stared at her in horror, thinking that yes, this did make sense, and that Sandra, being in her forties/fifties, would know better than the rest of us.  (She said it happened to her before.)

I switched places with Adrianna to go and serve with Michelle and see what she thought.  Then I decided to share with Tyler, as he is a guy, and get his opinion.

Somehow, I explained the whole story to Tyler in about five sentences.  I have no idea how I accomplished this.  I’ll never manage it again.

Tyler’s instinct is that he really does like me and is just hurt (which is my instinct, as well as the instinct of pretty much everyone who has actually met him), and he said, “Like, if I only wanted you [he lowered his voice here] for sex [normal voice again], then if you told me that you didn’t want a serious relationship, I would come back with, ‘That’s great!  Me neither!’”

But we all agreed that Sandra really could have a point.

After that I was too frightened by it all to call him.  I’m going to see what happens in class tomorrow, and take it from there.

Also at work tonight, Michelle and Tyler and I stood around talking for a good while, and then I had to go on a quest for more marinara, and when I came back, they explained to me that nothing was said while I was gone; conversation completely ceased.  They were looking forward to me coming back to break the awkward silence.  Conversation depended on me, they said.

Of course, this reminded me of the episode of Seinfeld when George and Elaine can’t talk to each other without Jerry there.  I told them so.

Tyler said, “I would be Elaine.  I claim her right now.”

Michelle said, “No way; you can’t be Elaine!  She’s a woman!”

I said, “I’m Jerry.”

“True,” she said.

“Besides, you’re short,” I told her, and Tyler and I both snickered.

Corey reminded me of Seinfeld today, too.  The first thing I heard him say was, “I am on no sleep!”

So I finished up, “No sleep!  You don’t know what it’s like over there!”

Katie cackled, and I did, too, and she said, “YUS, the Red Menace!”

Know-It-All looked at us, laughing a bit and shaking her head, and she said, “I love watching these two.  They sit there laughing evilly about all their little inside jokes, and you think they’re laughing at you, but most of the time they really aren’t.”

Katie and I looked at each other, and one of us said, “Except that we actually are, usually.”  Or maybe we only thought it.  I can’t remember.  That was right about the point that Dean the Mormon showed up.

I completely forgot my history quiz until last night at 3:30, when I was going to bed.  So I got out the sheet and memorized the twenty terms in order in just about five minutes.  I cannot tell you how amazed I was; usually it takes way longer.  After reading them once pretty much, I knew them all.

Katie and I went to Steak ‘n’ Shake at midnight and, by 1:45, had frightened all the customers away.  Score.

I should sleep.  I have to pick up my contacts tomorrow, and the office closes at twelve.  I didn’t make it on Monday.  (It was like 12:45 by the time I got there.)


A Special Breed of Stupid

When I finished reading “News Flash” to the class the other day, L’Owen said, “I love that line—‘special breed of stupid’—I’m going to steal that.  Not for anything I’ll write, but just to say it to people in everyday conversation.”

Nicole thinks I should sell it to Happy Bunny.

Well, you heard it here first.  You hear that line anywhere else, you’ll know it was stolen from me.

When I stood up to read “News Flash”, and L’Owen said, “This is Ginny’s love poem,” Corey said, “Love?  Who does Ginny love, Harry Potter?”  Bwahahaha.

Then later, L’Owen commented that there are all these serious emotions about past high school relationships in our love poems, and that when he was in high school, he wasn’t serious about his relationships at all.  And this one girl told him, “That’s because you’re a special breed of stupid, Professor.”  Then she immediately hid her face and said, “Oh, I’m going to fail now.”

But he was laughing.  “No!” he said.  “No, on the contrary, I’m pleased that you felt comfortable enough to say that.  This is the kind of rapport I like to have with my students.”

So yeah, class was fun—sad, though.  It was the last time I will ever be in L’Owen’s class.  He got us pizza, and the pizza guy walked in with these big gold hoop pirate earrings, and L’Owen was like, “Hold on a second there—show the class your earrings.  Class, look at his earrings!”

I’m going to miss random stuff like that.  He told us he wanted to give a speech that he usually saves for the last day of class, but he left it at home.  Some speech Bill Murray gives in Rushmore, which I haven’t seen, but I found it online.  Goes like this:

“You guys have it real easy.  I never had it like this where I grew up.  But I send my kids here because the fact is you go to one of the best schools in the country:  Rushmore.  Now, for some of you it doesn’t matter.  You were born rich and you’re going to stay rich.  But here’s my advice to the rest of you:  Take dead aim on the rich boys.  Get them in the crosshairs and take them down.  Just remember, they can buy anything but they can’t buy backbone.  Don’t let them forget it.  Thank you.”

I’ve got to see this movie.

There’s this really obnoxious guy at work who seemingly tries to piss us off just by staring stupidly when we tell him he can’t do something or we can’t do something for him.  He annoys the hell out of me.  I don’t like dealing with him.

Last week, he tried to give Michelle two plates, and she’d just been yelled at for that, so she told him no, and he stood there and stared at her for about ten more people before she finally told him, “I’m sorry, I can’t do that, just go and eat that one and then come back.”  And he walked off huffily.

I was complaining to my mom about this guy, and she said, “Maybe he’s mentally challenged.”

Perhaps it is politically incorrect of us, but we decided to treat him like he is whether he actually is or not.  We decided to start calling him The Waterboy.

Thursday night we had make-your-own-pizza night, and during a slow moment, Michelle came up to me and said, “I’ve been wondering what would happen if we cooked one of these pizzas with an ice cube on it.”

I said, “DOOO IIIIT!”

She said, “I’ve got to wait for just the right person, though,” and I was opening my mouth to tell her to wait for The Waterboy, when he walked in.

Well, it came out looking normal, but we’re hoping it tasted soggy and watery.  Jerk.

When I told Sandra, she said, “Oh, you should have done it to Rain Man, too!  You should have put about five ice cubes on his pizza.  That boy annoys me so much…!”

Sandra has been well-trained.  Unfortunately, Rain Man never came through the pizza line that night.

Thursday I took my first and last final for the semester.  It was in history, so when I gave the prof my test, she whispered, “Ginny, do you have any more classes to take with me?”

I whispered back that I’ll be at UNF next semester, and she said good luck and keep in touch.  I am going to miss her classes; she’s the greatest history teacher I ever had, and she’s so sweet.  Haha.

I arrived in English class half an hour late today, as everybody else was leaving, and the prof gave me my A and then he and a couple other girls sat around talking for the majority of the class period, mostly about holidays and such.  He was telling us how when he was a kid in like third grade, it was mandatory that the class get up and sing “Jesus Loves Me” every morning, and his father told him he couldn’t (because he’s Jewish).

It’s a weird feeling—these are some of my favorite teachers from college, I’m taking them all for the second or third time, and now I know I’ll never take any of them again because I’m switching schools.  Strange.

L’Owen offered us all letters of recommendation, so I think I’ll remember that for the future….

I was about to write about the dream I had this morning, when I realized I’ve already forgotten it.  I haven’t had time to refresh my memory this morning, so it just…didn’t stick.

But yesterday morning I had a dream about this huge plant that ate people.  What’s funny is, I think in my dream I actually said, “This is just like Little Shop of Horrors!”

Actually, it was worse, though, because this giant plant (way bigger than the one from the play) had X-ray vision and super-hearing and would slam its way through walls and such to get at people.  No warning at all, it would just suddenly burst through the ceiling and scoop you up in its mouth.  And it grabbed onto things with its vine and pulled itself along.  You couldn’t run or hide from the thing—it was very much like a horror movie.

I have very little else to talk about right now, so I’ll just post this, I guess.

Signs and Omens

I just called Ryan.

What was I thinking!?  Of course he still has a girlfriend!

Well, at least it didn’t really feel awkward.  I mean, I did half expect that response, so I was set for it, and he’s such an easygoing guy.

Here’s how it went:

He actually answered, first of all, which I didn’t expect.  He was always really difficult to get hold of by phone.

I said, “Hey, this is Ginny…from the cafeteria.”

“Hey, what’s up?”  It was a surprised, friendly sort of tone.  Not a “OMG, why are you calling me!?” sort.

I said I still had his number on my phone, so I figured I would call to see what was up.  I then asked him how he was doing (good, but very busy) and he asked how I was doing (also good, not so busy) and then he said, “My phone broke yesterday, so I actually had no idea who was calling.”

I said, “My car broke yesterday.”

He sort of laughed and said, “Well, I guess you win!”

I laughed, too, then said, “I was wondering if you’d wanna get together sometime, hang out again.”

And then he said, “Oh…I actually have a girlfriend now.”

I thought, DAMN IT!  Then I said, as though I was completely surprised and had had no idea in the world, “Oh…I’m sorry!”

“No, it’s okay.  We can still hang out if you want to, catch a movie or something.”

“As friends, of course,” I had to throw in, to show that I understood.

“Yeah, give me a call and we’ll set something up,” he said.  “I’m about to go into class, though.”

So, should I do it?  I said I would.  He is a great guy; I certainly don’t mind being friends with him.  But should I?  Would that be weird?  Because we were never friends before; we just went on a date last year.  So it wouldn’t be like going back to how it used to be before a hiatus—because there is no “how it used to be”.

In other news, yesterday I walked into my room and happened to glance at the clock—it was 3:34.  This sounds completely normal, I realize, but it wasn’t.  See, the last three times I had stepped into my room before leaving work and happened to glance at the clock, it was 3:33.  Three times in a row this happened.  I mean, that’s a strange number to just happen upon, if you think about it, because of all the times it could show, there are only ten chances each day for it to read three digits exactly the same.  (Twelve if you want to count 11:11.)  Twelve minutes out of twenty-four hours.

Anyway, so being as how I would have had to wait eleven hours and fifty-nine minutes for it to actually say “3:33” again, and I’d been only one minute too late…I somehow took this as a bad omen.  I said so to myself.  It’s because I need things to be even.  It’s that OCD coming through.  I felt off and had no way to fix it because I had missed the same time I’d happened across those past three times by one minute.  Does this make any sense at all?

So I’m heading out of my room, thinking, “Bad omen….”  Or a sign, or something.  And what good are signs if you don’t know how to read them?  And of course, the only thing I can think is that something bad was going to happen on my way to work, like my car breaking down.

And then I got a flat tire.  I’m not really superstitious, though, about most things, so I am merely pointing this out as a very strange coincidence, and a possible example of my occasional clairvoyance.

The prof had me read my “Richard Cory” paper aloud to the class today, because he was so impressed with it.  In fact, the other day when he was reading it during our little one-on-one time, he read the thesis…stopped…and went back to read it again, before saying, “Wow…that is a really good thesis.  Did you really write that?”

“No, I bought it online,” I said.

“Wow, how much did you pay for that?”


“For a thesis that good, I’d have paid $29.99.”

I think I now have the highest grade in both my creative writing and English classes.  Kick arse.

Anyway, got work now, and as I missed it yesterday and am leaving early today, it’d be good to be on time.

Parking Madness

College parking lots are fun.

No, I’m serious; the whole thing is like a big game of beat-the-clock (or beat-fellow-drivers-with-a-big-stick).

First of all, you have to arrive at the lot thirty to forty-five minutes earlier than whatever time you’re supposed to be wherever you’re going, be it work or school.  This entitles you plenty of time on the field.  It’s like Seeking, in a way, searching for that single parking spot in the vastness of the lot.  One game can go on for months.

The other day, for example, I drove around for a full thirty minutes before a spot opened up in the distance.  There are three rows in the first lot; I was coming from the two-rowed lot next to it and saw a spot open up at the far end of the second row.  But a moment before, another car had pulled into the third row.  At any second, that driver would be pulling around, and would be on the end with the open spot.

Let me tell you, I have never driven so fast through a parking lot.  I couldn’t take the chance that the other driver had seen that car pull out, which, presumably, he had. I
screamed, “IT’S MINE!  MIIIINNNE!” and laughed maniacally (I actually did.  Instinct. Scary, huh?) as I put on my blinker and raced down the row at sonic boom speeds.  And I got it.

But leaving’s a problem, too.  When I get out of work, I’m exhausted from standing up in the heat for 4 hours straight, and I like to sit in my car and check messages on my phone, perhaps return calls…you know.  Relax.  And there are all these people driving around scoping out the lots for cars that are leaving.  And they’ll sit there and
blink their blinkers obnoxiously until I pull out.  So heading back to my car is a matter of
concealing my keys in my palm until the last second, usually making a run for
it, and then scrunching down below the windows once I’m actually in the car.  I’m careful to leave everything off until the last possible moment.

Next semester, when I’m actually going to school there, I plan to get a parking space in the morning for my first class and never leave again until after work.

Mostly a Dream

Had this really bizarre dream about the cafe last night.  I came into work at my usual time one day, 4:30, and Michelle, who’d gotten there a couple minutes early, came running over to find me to say that she’d found this hidden closet nobody had ever noticed before, and that inside was a door to another dimension.  She told me I had to see it.  Of course I did.  So I dropped what I was doing (probably making pizzas) and ran off to see the other dimension.

First of all, there’s this closet.  It’s like a little crack in the wall that you have to crawl through, right by the men’s bathroom.  Inside, it’s all dark and empty (because nobody uses it, of course) and all there is is this giant, like 10-foot-tall mirror leaning against the wall to our left, and then these rickety wooden stairs on the wall to our right, leading to a door.

Through this door is another, similar sort of room, but now the stairs going down are on the left, and the mirror is on the right.  (It wasn’t until telling somebody this story later that I realized the significance of the mirrors—besides being one of my worst fears, they also represented a parallel dimension.)  And then there’s the door to the outside.

We stepped through it and found ourselves on the moon, staring out over outer space, and Earth…Earth is dead ahead.

Okay, so this was cool, but we had no means of getting to this other Earth, and I’m like, “Why?  Why would we find a door to another dimension that we can’t do anything with!?  How are we supposed to see what this other Earth is like if we can’t get to it!?  Why are we on the moon!?”

Just then, the Earth in front of us exploded into billions of tiny pieces.

Michelle said, “That’s why.”

As we watched, however, the billions of tiny pieces flew back into place, and the Bizarro Earth was again intact.

But then it exploded again, and it kept on exploding, over and over.

Anyway, we were so mesmerized by all of this, we just stayed and watched it forever, and when we finally decided to go back to work, it was 7:10.  (We close at 7:30.)  Except they were closed.  Not only that, all of the managers were there, looking furious, and Bob looked furious, and he saw us and wanted to know where the hell we had been, and it turns out they had closed early because there weren’t enough people to stay open, and we were both going to be out of a job.

But we said, “Bob!  We have a perfectly good reason!  We found a doorway into another dimension!”

Bob coldly informs us that he doesn’t want to hear any of our shit, and we should just get out of there now.

But we continue, “No, Bob, we’re telling the truth!  Look, we’ll prove it to you!  We’ll show you the door!”

Of course, the door is now gone.  No trace of it.

And back to real life.  What’d I do yesterday…went to lunch with Andrew at Matt’s—I had veal marsala over portabella, yummy.  Then headed to the café with Dennis to eat dinner for free, and hung out with Adrianna and Turtle for a while.  (Oh, and The Lukealike is now in my phone under that name.  We told him, too.  I told him we called him that, and he didn’t believe me, so he went up and said to Michelle, “She put me in her phone under ‘The Lukealike’, and Michelle said, “That’s so funny; that’s what we call you!”)

Going to Adventure Landing with the work crew tonight, except no Michelle or Adrianna.

Three Dreams and a Cafe Anecdote

I left something out of the last entry:  Del told me about Friday, when he was sick, he was talking to Scot on the phone (Del is one of our chefs; Scot’s a boss) about bringing in his new Star Wars to loan Scot’s kids.

“I don’t think he was really listening, though,” Del said.  Because when Del said, “Now, just as a warning, they do kill kids in this movie,” Scot responded with, “Oh, good, they’ll love that….”

Maybe Scot wasn’t paying attention.  Maybe he was kidding.  Maybe he was serious.  Any way you look at it, that’s a pretty funny answer.

Anyway, to the dreams.

The first was not last night, but the night before.  I dreamed I was Harry Potter, on a bus to God knows where.  Ron and Hermione were there, too.

We were sitting on the right side, towards the front, and Lucius was there, too, sitting on the left and several rows back.  (I think Draco was there, too, but I don’t remember.)  I kept turning around in my seat, and Lucius and I kept glaring at each other, and at one point he gave me a Lucius smile, and I gave him a Harry smile right back to show him that maybe he could be mischievous and cruel, but I certainly knew the meaning of the word “mischief” and he’d better look out.  And somehow from his face, I could just tell that he knew I was a worthy enemy, like it or not.

But then he gave another evil Lucius grin, and suddenly there was a Dementor sitting right next to me.  I freaked out!  I never found Dementors as scary as I did at that moment, with me actually as Harry, and one sitting right next to me.  It was kind of terrifying.

I could hear it breathing, and then…it turned to look at me…and it was still breathing…and it stared and stared…and then just as slowly, it turned back and stared forward, and Ron and Hermione kept muttering things like, “It’s okay, Harry, it’s just minding its own business,” and “Don’t bother it and it won’t bother you,” and I kept watching it out of the corner of my eye….  I also heard Dumbledore’s voice in my head saying that there is nothing to fear but fear itself, which, in turn, got the Boingo song “Nothing to Fear” in my head, because of course, those lyrics are in it repetitively.

And then, very, very slowly, it took off its hood….

And I noticed that it had human hands….

And then I looked up, and it turned and looked at me, again very deliberately….

And it had a human face.  But not just any human face.

It was this totally random guy who comes through my line at work every day.  I’ve never spoken to the guy, don’t know anything about him, never really thought about him before, and then all of a sudden, there he was, cast as an extra in one of my dreams.

Well now, of course, I see him and am like, “Who is this guy!?!?”  Like he crept into my dream on purpose.  I don’t know, because that’s really weird.  I keep staring at him and wondering if he knows I’m staring at him and knows perfectly well that he was there in my dream in such a creepy manner, and knowing at the same time that this is completely ludicrous.

At any rate, I woke up about the moment he turned and looked at me, thinking, “WTF—Dementors aren’t supposed to be hot!”

Then I woke up even more and realized I knew who that guy was, and that I still had the Boingo song stuck in my head.

And onto last night.  I had two last night.

The first, Katy (The Bimbo that I work with) and I were, apparently, recent partners-in-crime who held up stores (or maybe just Super Walmarts) by casually walking in with guns, flirting with the male employees, and informing them that we wanted so-much-money before we left.

All action in the store would cease, as they gave us however much we asked for—we never emptied the cash registers, though—and we wished everyone well, and walked out, smiling charmingly.  Once outside, we would start running, because we’d know that the grace period they would always give us ended two minutes after we exited.

So last night, we robbed a Super Walmart, and I’m holding the gun on this one guy in a blue vest, and everything has stopped, and there’s a sort of air like, “Oh, great, we’re being held up again” but at the same time it’s, “Hey, isn’t it fun being held up by these two?”  And all the customers are even amused to see it taking place.  I don’t know.  Really strange, of course, as dreams always are.

I have no idea what Katy was doing (how the hell did she creep into my dream, anyway?  And in what dimension would she ever be my partner?)—she was just playing around somewhere as I conducted business, and I was going to get $2000, but then she called out, “No, make it 3,” so I said, “$3000, then” and the clerk obliged, and then we were off.

Katy informed me that she knew this great place we could escape, and that I should follow her.  Well, for some reason I did, and we ended up inside this huge indoor obstacle course that apparently was known to take an average of two hours to get through.

Let me describe this place, because it’s quite fascinating, really.  It was set up as sort of like a YMCA, where you could go just to get some good exercise in two hours’ time.  It was really dark inside, and instead of having actual floors (it went underground in places and way up in others), it had, like, rope bridges, rope ladders, swinging things that you step in one at a time to get across a gorge-type-thing (with a net below, I think)…it was a lot of good aerobic activities.  Kind of felt like a playground, or like an Indiana Jones video game.  It was all twisty and turn-y and maze-y, and I think there were probably several routes to get to the end, and at some points there were dark rooms that looked like really creepy rooms in haunted houses where you could stop and rest, and we stopped in one room that looked like a bedroom and hid under the bed and in the closet because somebody else was coming.

The rooms to rest in were so creepy, let me tell you—not as dark as the passages, but still dark, and only lit by…black lights, I guess they were.

Anyway, so we heard a voice, and we hid in this room, and the voices were gone, and by now, as we continue on our way, I’m bitching at Katy:  “How could you lead us in here!?  They’re going to figure out where we went, and they’re going to be waiting for us on the other end, you dolt!  Haven’t you ever heard the phrase ‘you can run, but you can’t hide’?”

She said, “That’s what we’re doing; we’re running!”

I said, “No, this equates to hiding, because we are in essentially one location and will be for the next hour and a half!  You’ve completely screwed us over; we’re going to be caught this time, do you realize that?  This is it for us!  Thanks a lot!”

“They won’t know we’re in here,” she said.

“Of course they’ll know.  There’ll be eyewitnesses, or it’ll just be obvious because there isn’t anywhere else we could be in this amount of time.  Someone is going to figure it out by the time we’ve gotten to the end.  We’re screwed.”

We kept going, and passed a few more people, whom I believed were all staring at us like they knew, but of course none of them were; although I was positive I was right about them waiting for us on the other end, and then these people would all be staring….

I never found out though, because that dream, I think, just sort of drifted into another one…an even creepier one….

I was at…Aunt Christine’s house, I think?…and I had a lot of relatives who never existed before this dream…some little blonde chubby girl…well, maybe she was the only one.  There was this cool girl who was my friend who I kept trying to hook up with Grant (my real cousin).

My aunt had this haunted painting.  It was really creepy.  I’m not particularly sure what it did.  But it was up to all of us cousins (the only ones who really believed it was haunted—the adults just laughed at that) to camp out in front of it and stay awake in shifts at all times and make sure it didn’t…do anything.

It was really dark in there, too.  No matter what time of day it was.  Several days must have passed, for the amount of shifts we had.  I alternated talking to Grant, and that girl, and my little fake cousin, and sleeping.  The whole thing was eerie.  I can’t remember much more, though.

The Cafe, Poetry, and Python Virgins

The drains at the café keep getting clogged—four times in six days now, apparently—and so the entire cafeteria smells like sewage.  I kept insisting this was a health hazard and we should be closed, but this accomplished nothing, and it didn’t stop hundreds of kids from still coming in and eating in shit.  We’re all going to get the bloody Plague, or malaria at least.

In better café news, Creepy didn’t come in yesterday or today, and I hadn’t thought he’d called, which, as I explained to Sandra, hopefully meant he either quit or would be fired as a result of not calling—although I was probably just setting myself up for disappointment.

Apparently, however, he did call, but he’s taking two weeks off—after, you know, like three weeks on the job.  So yeah, he’s probably gone.  I’d blow on one of those little party favor things that squeaks and unrolls if I had one.  As it is, I’ll just have to content myself with the party in my head.

When I walked into Creative Writing today, L’Owen said, broad grin in place, “Oh, Ginny…thank you so much for those fifty pages you gave me.  I appreciate that.”

I grinned back and said, “Why, you’re so very welcome.”

“No, I mean it—thanks,” he said.  I’m afraid.  Hahaha.  Very afraid.  On Wednesday I’ll
find out exactly what he thinks of it.

Last class, he assigned each group a poem to analyze.  Ours happened to be my number-one favorite that we’d read out loud that day.  It’s called “Self Help”, and I don’t have the
author’s name, but I’ll have to find that some other time.  (I’m too lazy to do it right now.)

Then today, each group had to present their findings to the rest of the class.  He was walking around, listening to our little group discussions beforehand, and when he approached our group, he said, “Did you guys like this poem?”

“I did,” I said.

“Why did you like it, Ginny?”

“It was funny.”

“Why was it funny?”

“I liked the guy’s attitude.”

“What did you like about it?”

“I like how he was all against those snooty, uppity rich people who think they’re better than everybody else.”

He quoted a bit of the poem and said, “Those people?” and I said yes, and he said, “You don’t consider yourself one of those people?” and I assured him I was not, and he said, “That’s funny, because after having read your short story, I would have thought otherwise.”

…Huh?  Is he calling me snooty!?  I’ve really got to see what the hell his comments are on this short story.  I find out Wednesday at 1:00.

Anyway, so we’re presenting these poems, and all the other groups are going into all this technical stuff like trochees and line breaks and what they mean and why they’re there, and our group is looking at each other like, “We are so screwed.”

We were last to go, and Josh, our spokesman, so nominated because he was not paying attention when we voted, stood up and announced, with a completely straight face as I instructed, “We discovered that this poem has four stanzas.”

The entire class burst into laughter, including L’Owen, and he said, “Really, Josh!?  How on Earth did you arrive at this stunning conclusion?”

Still managing to keep his face straight, Josh said, “Well, there are three page breaks.”

L’Owen, still feigning amazement, looked at the poem and said, “There are—well, would you look at that—there really are three page breaks!  How could we have missed

It was great.  All class long, when he was going on and on about how great poetry is and how accomplished you will feel if you write a truly great poem, possibly even more accomplished than you would having finished a short story, I was just trying really desperately not to laugh.  At one point I just did, right out loud.  And Corey, whose group is across the room, and I were just making faces at each other all that time.

Corey is really hilarious because, whether he feels he is being funny or not, he always wears the same expression on his face—one of complete passiveness.  (Occasionally, he’ll burst into a fit of despair, but this is rare.  Humorous, though, when it happens.)

Corey detests poetry.  It hurts his head.  He doesn’t get it.

And he totally doesn’t get e. e. cummings.  He was very vocal about
this in class the first time we read poetry together.  And L’Owen, himself very amused by
Corey’s reaction, promised to give that poem to Corey’s group to analyze.

Corey exploded today, when they were going through their poem out loud.  It made going to class and receiving our assignments quite worthwhile.

Friday I had a Python night with Dennis, Adrianna, and Michelle.  They were all Python virgins, which was a truly wonderful experience.  If all of your friends love Python, as they should, then go out and look for some new people who have never heard of them before and make introductions.  They will laugh at Holy Grail and dead parrots and self-defense classes and Silly Walks as though these things were brand new.  It will be
fascinating, and it will make you feel like these things really are brand new.