Rank Strangers
So I am listening to a good mix of Ralph Stanley and Bob Dylan and being so non-productive it hurts.
I miss home.
And I am moving 3000+ miles from it.
I am a master of contradiction.
Sometimes I doubt my reasoning skills--they always seem to get me into places that I don't want to be. They got me to Williamsburg, they got me in this apartment, they got me away from giddy youth and well into the cynical world of academia. And now they're taking me to California because it's the right thing to do, because it will work out in the end, because I am not interested in short term fixes, because I am in it for the long haul and should prepare accordingly. Goddamn. Sometimes I believe this shit.
And then there's this guy that I went to high school with. We were friends. Really good friends. But he was the type of guy that you are kind of annoyed with until you get away from them for--say, 5 years or so, and then you think, God, I miss that guy. Wonder what he'd have to say now. So I IM him. No apparent reason, just do it. He's married. He lives with his parents and goes to community college. And I tell him I'm moving to California, and he says he's not surprised, and he's not impressed in the least, and he has to get something to eat and so he says "have fun in cali" and leaves. And I'm thinking--Why are you not impressed? I have a Bachelor's Degree goddamnit!!!!! I have worked my ass off while you did nothing but knock up some fat girl in your bunk bed (I'm going to assume he still has the bunk beds he had all the way through high school and that they now serve as the marital bed), and you don't give a flying fuck and I don't understand it. What the fuck is your problem? But, you know, it's not him, I dare say. It is me and the fact that I am selling out and moving to a place I've seen once and living with someone who is blatantly smarter and more successful than me. It is the fact that I have to leave here and I'm nervous and I'm sad and I want someone to say: "You know, Morgan, moving to California is a good idea. And you're going to have a great time. Now let me help you pack up those books."
And I need to lose 10 pounds, and I don't have an iPod or a cell phone and I am so tragically unhip that it hurts. I have images of myself showing up and hearing about a new reality show entitled "The Berkeley Hillbilly" that portrays me in my attempts to be a better person but falling on my face.
I really need to stop listening to Ralph Stanley. Seriously.
I'm just tired. Tired of having to worry about this. I want to leave tomorrow. I want to get out of here, just so I don't have to think about it anymore.
Oh, and if you are reading this Eric, I am sorry for calling your wife fat. I'm sure she is not. That was probably an old picture I saw. It's just this thing called stream of conciousness that no one really cares about but me and five other people I once had a class with. But you don't care about that--no one does, or I'd have a job that involved getting paid to ruminate on Joyce while drinking espresso con pannas.
I need a nap.
I miss home.
And I am moving 3000+ miles from it.
I am a master of contradiction.
Sometimes I doubt my reasoning skills--they always seem to get me into places that I don't want to be. They got me to Williamsburg, they got me in this apartment, they got me away from giddy youth and well into the cynical world of academia. And now they're taking me to California because it's the right thing to do, because it will work out in the end, because I am not interested in short term fixes, because I am in it for the long haul and should prepare accordingly. Goddamn. Sometimes I believe this shit.
And then there's this guy that I went to high school with. We were friends. Really good friends. But he was the type of guy that you are kind of annoyed with until you get away from them for--say, 5 years or so, and then you think, God, I miss that guy. Wonder what he'd have to say now. So I IM him. No apparent reason, just do it. He's married. He lives with his parents and goes to community college. And I tell him I'm moving to California, and he says he's not surprised, and he's not impressed in the least, and he has to get something to eat and so he says "have fun in cali" and leaves. And I'm thinking--Why are you not impressed? I have a Bachelor's Degree goddamnit!!!!! I have worked my ass off while you did nothing but knock up some fat girl in your bunk bed (I'm going to assume he still has the bunk beds he had all the way through high school and that they now serve as the marital bed), and you don't give a flying fuck and I don't understand it. What the fuck is your problem? But, you know, it's not him, I dare say. It is me and the fact that I am selling out and moving to a place I've seen once and living with someone who is blatantly smarter and more successful than me. It is the fact that I have to leave here and I'm nervous and I'm sad and I want someone to say: "You know, Morgan, moving to California is a good idea. And you're going to have a great time. Now let me help you pack up those books."
And I need to lose 10 pounds, and I don't have an iPod or a cell phone and I am so tragically unhip that it hurts. I have images of myself showing up and hearing about a new reality show entitled "The Berkeley Hillbilly" that portrays me in my attempts to be a better person but falling on my face.
I really need to stop listening to Ralph Stanley. Seriously.
I'm just tired. Tired of having to worry about this. I want to leave tomorrow. I want to get out of here, just so I don't have to think about it anymore.
Oh, and if you are reading this Eric, I am sorry for calling your wife fat. I'm sure she is not. That was probably an old picture I saw. It's just this thing called stream of conciousness that no one really cares about but me and five other people I once had a class with. But you don't care about that--no one does, or I'd have a job that involved getting paid to ruminate on Joyce while drinking espresso con pannas.
I need a nap.
posted by Southern Belle at 11:28 AM
0 Comments:
Post a Comment
<< Home