Wednesday, August 24, 2005

home, sweet, faculty hall

in my ears
our endless numbered days
artist: iron and wine
song: teeth in the grass

Hello, first day of school. I just read an email from my mom. She asked me if it smelled like the first day of school. You know what I'm talking about. It's that hot-but-cold, foggy, school bus exhaust, classrooms freshly doused in some sort of cleaning fluid smell. It didn't, Mom. Not today.

It began with the dullness of History of the English Language, which I can (and probably will) dub HEL, or HELL, tacking Lorrah at the end of that. Off to Waterfield for a briskly passing 2.5 hours of "Yeah, everybody's accounts have been disabled. Sign in with username Murray, password Racers. That'll take you through an account creation process. Then you can log out and log back in with your new account. Oh, and this information is on the computer screen, in case you didn't see it." J. Matt stopped and tried to talk to me for about ten minutes. I gave that exact spiel to about seven or eight people while trying to discuss with Matt our respective trips to Segovia and London. So much for conversation. But it's supposed to be work, right? Right. Well, I read some Bridget after things died down. Oh, and the person who sold me the wrong book is going to send the right one to me. For free. Yee! Okay, then it was Spanish. Bodevin is almost precious. Today, anyway. Then it was off to HH, or Jungle George. You wild and dirty man. I plot-outlined "The Story of an Hour" for the eighty-third time in my college career. And so there's my big long day.

Ah, I chicken-thirtied by myself. I did see John Jenkins for a few minutes in there. As a matter of fact, I've seen lots and lots of people. If there's anything that's been great fun this beginning-o'-the-semester, it's the seeing of about everybody ever and being met with so many good-to-see-yous. I've never felt like I've had to get so reacquainted in my life. I've seen everybody from Spain, except Charlie, but I'll probably see him in the library since he works there. Anyway, the moral of the chicken-thirty story (what story?) is that I must find someone to eat my lunches with. This, however, will prove to be a most unusual problem on Tuesdays and Thursdays when I have to eat lunch at 10:00. No joke.

I've been having the strongest urges to open the bottle of wine my seƱora gave me and see about it. I doubt all that. But I'll need every drop tomorrow. It's Day o' Hammurabi. God help us all.

Where is something to eat?

1 comment:

Anonymous said...

sure, we can crack open that bottle of wine. :-D