I skipped class last Wednesday to go to the library. The class is Victorian Poetry. I don’t care for Victorian Poetry. The professor speaks monotonally about obscure biographical information during the entire class period, often spilling over his 3 hour time limit. At the library I took two naps, read some excerpts from a book of Hardy poetry (research related), and skimmed a SciFi novel for my other class. I did this in the smallest corner available in the 12 story building.
I attempted to donate blood this morning. I heard there would be obstacles for civilians who had traveled out of the country in the past year. Surprisingly, the list mostly forbade donation from visitors of European countries. I was told to ask my volunteer about South America. We didn’t get to travel interrogation. The volunteer took my temperature and told me I had a fever of 100.2. I was disqualified. I removed my “I’m a donor!” sticker and walked out of the auditorium, back across the hallway to my job.
I don’t drink much anymore. Most nights not at all. Some nights — socially — a few quality beers. Rarely, some good whiskey. Never alone these days. My body and psyche feel much better after the change. The needy part of me is seeking some other form of dependence, though.
I sleep at least 10 hours a day. 10 hours plus naps. I try to work in a 30-minute nap on uncomfortable furniture (at inconvenient times) like pot smokers take one-hitters in public bathroom stalls. The overnight 10 hours would imply that I don’t need these 30-minute escapes. I awoke at 8 this morning, perfectly rested. I climbed back into bed and made myself sleep for 3 more hours. I accomplished nothing before work because of this.
I attend graduate school and work two jobs for six of the week’s seven days. One of these jobs is a Graduate Assistantship at the University tutoring center. I teach football players basic reading and writing techniques and do my schoolwork on the clock. Not so bad. At the other job I wait tables for a swanky local restaurant-bar combo. This is typically on weekends until the AM. The money is exceptionally good. The boss is exceptionally angry and offensive (as master chefs tend to be). He called one of my coworkers a White Trash Cunt. Another, a Fatass Meth Head. I haven’t received a nickname other than “Chief” yet. I have been cussed out numerous times in front of customers. Working these two jobs leaves little time for writing. My production is way down. A 5,000 word segment from my Korea narrative that I was supposed to have finished weeks ago is still unresolved. My short stories haven’t been touched in months. Instead of pursuing these activities, I make money. I tell myself I’m working for this summer, saving up so I can spend months in Berlin and Ecuador with friends and relatives. I will have loads of free time for writing then. At my current pace, I will be able to afford it, as well. But then my car transmission started making funny noises the other day. If those noises amount to anything more than a playing card in my spokes, my checking account will be emptied and my summer plans will obtain the properties of vapor.
While working at the restaurant last week, a former professor (and his wife) sat at the bar and asked me to make him a mix CD and write a poem about trees for the city Arbor Day festivities. I will likely do both.
I don’t masturbate as frequently as my teenage self did. I’m not unhappy. I just don’t have the time. Perhaps I should make time. I’m reaching the age when phrases like “prostate health” get thrown around in routine doctor visits. Plus, those few seconds at the end are always fun.
I wish Malcolm X would get mentioned more during Black History Month. I wish he would get mentioned more during the other 11 months, as well.
I’m starting to comprehend the unlikelihood of me performing music on stage. I wish I knew what to do with these songs I’ve written, as well as what to do with all of the songs I’m going to write throughout my lifetime.
I haven’t been on a date in a couple of months. It could pertain to current work ethic. Hints of flirtyness, but not a lot of desire to follow through as of late. Before the drought I was setting some kind of personal record for dating frequency. I’ve started to associate some facets of dating with social drinking. Both have become a chore you work at to achieve a semi-desired goal — a goal that’s less desirable the day after.
The U.S. soccer team lost to Honduras yesterday. World Cup qualification for the team is questionable. Some of the best players, perhaps the only truly good players, are too old for the international endeavor. Roger Federer doesn’t win the big ones anymore. Steve Nash’s chances at a championship before retirement are bleak. All of this bothers me way more than it probably should. A more bothersome question: Why are all the athletes I idolize white?
I brought in my University fiction award plaque and a little league soccer trophy to display on the shelves of our mutual Graduate Assistant office at work. It made some people laugh. I thought it was funny. Yet I can’t help but feel that my underlying goal was to draw attention to my achievements.
I should probably start applying for jobs. My educational match is burning to a charred nub. My life is open-ended. My health insurance is not. My parents continually remind me of this. I will turn 25 and graduate almost simultaneously in the summertime. At some point before then I will likely make plans. I will likely settle for a tangentially related job or the next echelon of school. I will likely fill my car trunk with all of my books and drive north toward a CraigsList promise.