happy cinco de mayo!

"... they always try 2 make it seem like everything is about my ego! That joke is getting old." -Kanye West

One more week until I'm hooome! In my not-even-drunken-yet stupor, I had left my over-the-shoulder bag (containing: wallet, keys, two pairs of black pumps, & my phone) at the on-campus eatery Saturday night. I'm so fucking dumb, it's ridiculous. Hopefully, my shit doesn't get stolen... as often as I lose things, I'm glad I've never been robbed (here, anyway).

One paper, one exam, lots of German--here's to one last grueling week before I'm free.

gaolhouse rock

"I didn't take your money when I had ALL your credit cards locked up in my dreams." -Charles Manson

Wow, who knew Mr. Manson had an inner Rimbaud? There's something hauntingly creepy about that sentence, and it's not only because it's from a serial killer to a (theoretical) ten-year-old boy. Point is, Manson and Rimbaud are both fucking NUTS. However, I'm unflaggingly curious; should I play pen-pals with a serial killer? Would he write me prose poems? Because I want prose poems, but maybe permanent solitary reclusion is a weak substitute for absinthe.

And I'm thinking of children-eaters and man-slayers when I should be--

I should be doing laundry. Four piles, consisting of wet towels, old jeans, soiled dresses & other things, lay about on my floor. They've been growing for about two point two weeks and have begun to integrate into each other. I'm out of socks (but it's springtime [but it might rain]). I can't bring myself to move, however; the exhaustion imposed by living in this dump is bereaving me of all energy. But I'm comfortable. I can't be bothered once I'm comfortable.

property rights

What the fuck. Here I am, trying to be studious for once in my college life (can I admit to you this is my second year at Brown and this is the first time that I've ever used the library to do my work?) and the guy who chooses to sit in front of me happens to be the loudest motherfucker on the planet. I mean, there I was, all awkward and insecure about my cowboy boots clacking away on the linoleum tiles when no one's making a sound (you always have to be quiet in a library, right?) and here he comes stomping in. He plays his music without earphones (fucker!) and it's jazz (motherfucker! because I can't concentrate when jazz's playing) and he's eating something hot and meaty-smelling (rawr?) and slopping about like I don't belong here.