I just can't fight this feeling any longer
Baby steps. As part of my new commitment to scrap together some front of cosmopolitan respectability before leaving the country, I have moved two blocks from my "comfort zone" to Starbuck's, which is a big deal to me. To make up for the uncertainty and - as always, I refuse to front - bone-freezing fear this move has brought with it, I am listening to REO Speedwagon on my IPOD, very loud, which seems to alternatingly bemuse and piss off the well-groomed hyper skeeze to my immediate right along the bar. To my left is a guy working on a paper for one of the dime-a-dozen Greek mythology cores. His girlfriend just came to rouse him, and he's leaving. I will miss him, I realize now, too late. I will miss his plaid shirt, and unconvincingly worn in jeans.
I don't actually have REO Speedwagon's Greatest Hits, for some reason, so I'm just listening to "I Can't Fight This Feeling" over and over again. I don't know how to set my IPOD to repeat, so I have to reprompt the song every time it ends. Everytime I do this, my left sleeve, which I've pushed up my forearm because it's slightly too long and messes with my typing, rolls down, revealing the small coffee stain I just got on it. That's the real reason I rolled up my sleeves. I was fronting before, and I apologize. In any case:
This is probably the proudest I've ever been of myself.
I don't actually have REO Speedwagon's Greatest Hits, for some reason, so I'm just listening to "I Can't Fight This Feeling" over and over again. I don't know how to set my IPOD to repeat, so I have to reprompt the song every time it ends. Everytime I do this, my left sleeve, which I've pushed up my forearm because it's slightly too long and messes with my typing, rolls down, revealing the small coffee stain I just got on it. That's the real reason I rolled up my sleeves. I was fronting before, and I apologize. In any case:
This is probably the proudest I've ever been of myself.
posted by Jeremy at 7:01 AM
2 Comments:
did they kick you out of the let's go office? you know that every dining hall and JCR around here have wireless internet. snap!
I'm not a Harvard student. I can't log into the network. I'm a ghost.
I just wrote a one act play based loosely on Ted Leo's "Tell Balgeary, Balgury is Dead", which is a wicked awesome song, and befriended a delightful woman who speaks an indeterminate language that involves hissing, clicking, touching my shoes. She says she'll produce my play.
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