The trip from LaGuardia to Huntsville required two stops and one plane change. We were an hour late even leaving New York. In Raleigh-Durham, I didn’t even leave the plane. In Charlotte, I had to wait for more about two hours for my next flight, so I found my way to the bar and checked my flight status using my iPod and the abundant wireless signal. I was going to be an hour late into Huntsville. Thankfully, Art-History was there to greet me upon my arrival, accompanied by Ma and NoHips, with a beer for the ride home. We had only an hour before BrynJoe and SignificantTraveler arrived, so that was just enough time to have a drink at the homestead before heading back to the airport. Yes, it was going to be that kind of week.
Art-History and I prepared a bottle of champagne for the ride back to the airport. Once we had gathered all three brothers together for the first time in eighteen months, we hit the road and promptly popped the champagne cork out of the sunroof. NoHips was happy to drive sans bubbly, but the rest of us managed a glass each before we got home. Ma was waiting on the front porch when we drove up.
The remaining time that evening progressed much like the following seven days. To paraphrase Spike Milligan, we all drank. We drank again. Then, several more agains, then a series of agains followed by one long permanent again.
The next several days would see the whole family leaving the house as little as possible. Mostly, we only left to restock our food and drink supplies. We didn’t have much cause to venture into the (relative) cold of the outside world when the primary purpose of our stay was to chat with each other, catch up on the time we’d spent apart, and lubricate our conversations with a copious amount of liquor.
That’s not to say we didn’t have other activities. We also ate like kings. Christmas Eve dinner was a fantastic lamb shank which, in addition to being delicious, caused us to say “shank” many times, as it is a most amusing word. Christmas morning was the usual smoked salmon and champagne, though SignificantTraveler was reticent to try the salmon due to its fishiness. She bravely downed a morsel, completing her family initiation, and opted for more champagne. Christmas dinner was Cornish hens as per our family tradition. It was agreed that the hens this year were of a superior quality.
The day after Christmas was a little gathering of twenty or so people, mostly associated with UAH, who were filling in as my parents’ new best friends. Most of them turned out to be very nice people, and some of them I had even met during my previous visits to Huntsville. As the evening drew to a close, BrynJoe and I revived the tradition of Christmas carols followed by boisterous singing of songs that have nothing to do with Christmas. Despite NoHips’ worries that it would not be a “singing crowd,” the guests were happy to belt out everything from “Silent Night” to “Hey Jude.” Our encore piece, “Sweet Home Alabama,” was strangely well received.
The neighbors, a couple who share their names with my Father and Oma respectively, insisted that we all come to their house the following evening for dinner. Art-History was unfortunately not going to be in attendance, since he was leaving that morning for a rendezvous with his better half. The rest of us agreed readily.
That evening was attended mostly by people from the neighborhood, all of whom were people that we’d met before. This meant that there was less need to spend time getting to know people and more time to get really good and drunk together. Our host was eager to have me play his Napoleonic-era piano and I was happy to oblige. This was a beautiful instrument. Even the fantastic amount of wine I had consumed to this point could not dull the thrill of resting my fingers on ivory keys that predated the Andrew Jackson presidency. The piano was manufactured with “English action,” rather than the modern “French action” to the keys, so the ability to play multiple keystrokes in quick succession was diminished, but the nearly 200-year old soundboard had lost none of its potency. I felt like I should be playing Bach and Beethoven on such an instrument, but one can’t really sing along to the Sonata Pathétique. I took requests instead. I played Andrew Lloyd Webber.
As this party was winding down, one of the guests declared that he had the less-than-desirable fortune of having to entertain future inlaws the following evening and that we should all crash said gathering since these particular inlaws had the habit of being “pretentious bullshitters.” BrynJoe and SignificantTraveler, both consummate bullshitters in their own right (and thus masterfully well-suited for each other!), were leaving the following morning for Graceland, so there was no chance of their attending, but Ma, NoHips and I assented.
So it was that yesterday, as the sole remaining brother in the state of Alabama, I found myself at someone else’s engagement party, charming the bejesus out of the God-fearing folk of the Bible Belt. I still haven’t gotten tired of the astonished look that appears on people’s faces as I sequentially inform them of my profession. “High school science teacher” earns a smile of appreciation. “…at a public school” earns a raised brow of impressed admiration. “…in New York City” causes the listener’s face to dissolve into an astonished expression of shock, pity, respectful awe, and a confused reassessment of my physical and mental toughness that is normally only given to the infantrymen of Iraq or the aid workers of Darfur.
After gleefully knocking the collective socks off of anyone I could corner into conversation, we retired home where I was faced with the unhappy task of cheering for the Giants as they snatched defeat from the jaws of victory. Cheering for the Giants over the Patriots is sort of like hoping that Stalin beats Hitler. You’re not exactly sure you want them to win, but figure it’d be better than if the other guy did. You can stop gloating now, BrownSox.
So I’m currently sitting at what I’m pretty sure is the only damn electric outlet in all of Charlotte’s airport, waiting for my flight back to LaGuardia, which has been delayed by exactly 70 minutes that remain opaque to all but the shifty Useless Airways employees. I’ve had time to write all this and I still won’t board for another hour. Oh, and due to a nonsensical North Carolina law, the airport bars won’t be serving alcohol until noon. The good news is that I haven’t got the shakes or anything, so apparently a week of nonstop boozing isn’t enough to turn me into more of a raging alcoholic than I already am. After this week, New Year’s Eve is going to be tame.
Sunday, December 30, 2007
Wednesday, December 19, 2007
A Little Perspective
Today was good. I felt re-energized after meeting up with my long lost brother. I was giving a quiz in class, so the workload was minimal. I took my advisory out to lunch as my little holiday gift to them. All I had to do was get through gym chaperoning and I could take my brother's laptop to the shop and go home for some relaxation before school tomorrow. This should have been my clue that all was far too good to be true.
It was the kind of announcement you hope will never happen when you're in the presence of your students. "We had to call 911 for Alonzo, he's having trouble breathing." I could tell from her face that Ms. K was serious. The one-hundred and twenty-plus 10th graders were distributed all around Chelsea Piers Fieldhouse, engaging in all manner of gym activities. I had been watching some students playing soccer and critiquing their lack of a passing game when Ms. K found me. She didn't kid around about things like this. I followed her to the benches near the batting cages, where Alonzo was not doing so well.
He's not the best student. Hell, he's close to failing in more than one class, including mine. He's quite proud of his pseudo-badass status. But I saw real fear in his eyes as he struggled to maintain consciousness, breathing only shallowly and lacking either the will or ability to keep his head up. Ms. K, our English teacher, had called 911. She and Aurelius, the Social Studies teacher, were helping to calm him down. I took charge of crowd control, shooing the rest of the students and talking with the school administration on the phone while my colleagues tried to keep our ailing student responsive. Soon I found myself holding Alonzo up, physically supporting his weight and then maneuvering him into a supine position when the EMTs arrived, checking out his vitals and administering oxygen.
We herded the students out of the room. The EMTs lifted Alonzo onto a gurney. Ms. K started pushing students towards the buses. I grabbed Alonzo's belongings and followed the gurney to the waiting ambulance. Aurelius followed me, relaying information to the school via cellphone and dealing with the stubborn stream of students who were trying to follow her to the ambulance. The two of us managed to finally send the last of the students to the buses, but only after much posturing and pouting. Aurelius noted that many of our more attention-seeking students were eager to have everyone notice just how concerned they were. Neither of us had time for that kind of bullshit.
In the ambulance, Alonzo didn't look so hot. He was in and out of consciousness, and was confused and disoriented when he was awake. We waited outside while the EMTs were trying to stabilize him and figure out where to take him once they did. St. Vincent's was closest. We made ready to leave. I hopped into the passenger seat of the ambulance, Aurelius set to walking after us.
I remarked that it was my first ride in an ambulance, front or back. "It's better to be in the front," quipped the driver. Traffic graciously moved aside as we made our way to the hospital. Alonzo was rushed out on the gurney while I haphazardly gathered his belongings and mine from the back of the ambulance. By the time I had scooped up everything, the EMTs had moved him inside.
I burst in through the doors carrying coats, shoes, backpacks and bags.
"The kid on the gurney?"
"Back and to the right."
I spotted the entourage and followed them back into the depths of the ER. Patients were strewn about on beds. Doctors and nurses strode around, armed with clipboards and stethoscopes. The whole group of us wheeled into an area labeled "Pediatrics," which seemed ridiculously small. A waiting room with six chairs was off to the side. Space for three beds lined the far wall while medical equipment and a reception desk took up most of the rest of the room. It was the kind of place were no one could really move without running in to someone else.
Alonzo was immediately hooked up to some monitors and approached by numerous people who asked him the same questions: "Are you on any medications?" "Do you have a history of asthma or respiratory illness?" "What did you eat today?" He was finally more responsive than he had been either at the Fieldhouse or in the ambulance, but he was still fairly non compos mentis. Aides and nurses had to lean in to make sense of his replies. They soon turned to me for more information.
"You're the teacher, right? You saw what happened?"
"Well, I didn't see it exactly...I know he complained of shortness of breath. He didn't collapse, we were able to get him to a bench and sit him down."
"Does he have asthma?"
"No, we're required to know if our students need an inhaler or other regular medication. As far as I know he's never had this happen before."
Thankfully, Aurelius showed up before I made a total ass of myself. The two of us made sure that we gave the doctors every piece of information we had, but we were really clueless about Alonzo's medical history. For that we needed his mother, who was en route from the Bronx. It was almost 5 PM before she made it to the hospital. It had been more than two and a half hours of frantic phone calls, uncertainty and trauma. But at least by the time his mother was at his side, Alonzo looked more like himself. He could sit up, stand, and move around, albeit gingerly. We left him and his mother to deal with the battery of tests which awaited them.
Aurelius correctly assumed that I would go for a drink after this ordeal. Of course, it was raining as we exited the hospital. We walked to Union Square while I called the administration one last time to tell them that all had been handed over to the parent and that our patient was doing fine. We found a place, sat down, and had a couple drinks before going our separate ways. All in a day's work, I suppose.
So Alonzo looks like he'll be turning his homework in late for years to come, and I'm thankful to be able to sit here and breathe, in and out, in the effortless way that I've been doing for the vast majority of my days on this Earth. I can't imagine what it must be like to suddenly find your lungs to be failing you. I don't know what caused this to happen to him, and it doesn't really matter in the end. It's so easy to forget how frail we are. It's so easy to miss our weakness and our vulnerability in our never-ending quest to maintain our pseudo-badassery.
I trust that when I sleep I will breathe till tomorrow. But tomorrow I'll have a little more perspective on the importance of each breath.
It was the kind of announcement you hope will never happen when you're in the presence of your students. "We had to call 911 for Alonzo, he's having trouble breathing." I could tell from her face that Ms. K was serious. The one-hundred and twenty-plus 10th graders were distributed all around Chelsea Piers Fieldhouse, engaging in all manner of gym activities. I had been watching some students playing soccer and critiquing their lack of a passing game when Ms. K found me. She didn't kid around about things like this. I followed her to the benches near the batting cages, where Alonzo was not doing so well.
He's not the best student. Hell, he's close to failing in more than one class, including mine. He's quite proud of his pseudo-badass status. But I saw real fear in his eyes as he struggled to maintain consciousness, breathing only shallowly and lacking either the will or ability to keep his head up. Ms. K, our English teacher, had called 911. She and Aurelius, the Social Studies teacher, were helping to calm him down. I took charge of crowd control, shooing the rest of the students and talking with the school administration on the phone while my colleagues tried to keep our ailing student responsive. Soon I found myself holding Alonzo up, physically supporting his weight and then maneuvering him into a supine position when the EMTs arrived, checking out his vitals and administering oxygen.
We herded the students out of the room. The EMTs lifted Alonzo onto a gurney. Ms. K started pushing students towards the buses. I grabbed Alonzo's belongings and followed the gurney to the waiting ambulance. Aurelius followed me, relaying information to the school via cellphone and dealing with the stubborn stream of students who were trying to follow her to the ambulance. The two of us managed to finally send the last of the students to the buses, but only after much posturing and pouting. Aurelius noted that many of our more attention-seeking students were eager to have everyone notice just how concerned they were. Neither of us had time for that kind of bullshit.
In the ambulance, Alonzo didn't look so hot. He was in and out of consciousness, and was confused and disoriented when he was awake. We waited outside while the EMTs were trying to stabilize him and figure out where to take him once they did. St. Vincent's was closest. We made ready to leave. I hopped into the passenger seat of the ambulance, Aurelius set to walking after us.
I remarked that it was my first ride in an ambulance, front or back. "It's better to be in the front," quipped the driver. Traffic graciously moved aside as we made our way to the hospital. Alonzo was rushed out on the gurney while I haphazardly gathered his belongings and mine from the back of the ambulance. By the time I had scooped up everything, the EMTs had moved him inside.
I burst in through the doors carrying coats, shoes, backpacks and bags.
"The kid on the gurney?"
"Back and to the right."
I spotted the entourage and followed them back into the depths of the ER. Patients were strewn about on beds. Doctors and nurses strode around, armed with clipboards and stethoscopes. The whole group of us wheeled into an area labeled "Pediatrics," which seemed ridiculously small. A waiting room with six chairs was off to the side. Space for three beds lined the far wall while medical equipment and a reception desk took up most of the rest of the room. It was the kind of place were no one could really move without running in to someone else.
Alonzo was immediately hooked up to some monitors and approached by numerous people who asked him the same questions: "Are you on any medications?" "Do you have a history of asthma or respiratory illness?" "What did you eat today?" He was finally more responsive than he had been either at the Fieldhouse or in the ambulance, but he was still fairly non compos mentis. Aides and nurses had to lean in to make sense of his replies. They soon turned to me for more information.
"You're the teacher, right? You saw what happened?"
"Well, I didn't see it exactly...I know he complained of shortness of breath. He didn't collapse, we were able to get him to a bench and sit him down."
"Does he have asthma?"
"No, we're required to know if our students need an inhaler or other regular medication. As far as I know he's never had this happen before."
Thankfully, Aurelius showed up before I made a total ass of myself. The two of us made sure that we gave the doctors every piece of information we had, but we were really clueless about Alonzo's medical history. For that we needed his mother, who was en route from the Bronx. It was almost 5 PM before she made it to the hospital. It had been more than two and a half hours of frantic phone calls, uncertainty and trauma. But at least by the time his mother was at his side, Alonzo looked more like himself. He could sit up, stand, and move around, albeit gingerly. We left him and his mother to deal with the battery of tests which awaited them.
Aurelius correctly assumed that I would go for a drink after this ordeal. Of course, it was raining as we exited the hospital. We walked to Union Square while I called the administration one last time to tell them that all had been handed over to the parent and that our patient was doing fine. We found a place, sat down, and had a couple drinks before going our separate ways. All in a day's work, I suppose.
So Alonzo looks like he'll be turning his homework in late for years to come, and I'm thankful to be able to sit here and breathe, in and out, in the effortless way that I've been doing for the vast majority of my days on this Earth. I can't imagine what it must be like to suddenly find your lungs to be failing you. I don't know what caused this to happen to him, and it doesn't really matter in the end. It's so easy to forget how frail we are. It's so easy to miss our weakness and our vulnerability in our never-ending quest to maintain our pseudo-badassery.
I trust that when I sleep I will breathe till tomorrow. But tomorrow I'll have a little more perspective on the importance of each breath.
Serendipity
The phone rang just after 9. I didn't recognize the number, but for some reason I picked up.
"Hello?"
"Do you have a couch and a good late-night pizza place?"
It took a moment for that statement to settle in my brain.
"Uhh...late-night pizza?"
"It's your brother, man. I'm in Newark."
Barring Marcel Marceau, I think he's officially the last person I was expecting to hear on the other end of that phone. After all, he's in Africa. Maybe that's why my brain didn't register whose voice it was at first. It turns out that my brother from the Dark Continent had missed his flight to Michigan out of Newark because his flight in from a tiny Middle Eastern nation had arrived too late. He and his girlfriend were stranded in the Big Apple until their flight out in the morning. Naturally, they called me.
After giving them directions and the specific instructions which they should pass on to their cabbie, I decided that we needed more beers in the fridge for this auspicious event. That, and I figured a beer or three was probably high on the list of things that these wayward travelers would require, since the beer selection in Sudan probably leaves something to be desired. I ordered a pepperoni pizza from the best New York-style pizzeria in Astoria, thinking that greasy American food is probably also something in short supply in Sub-Saharan Africa. JimmyLuke set about making the place a little more presentable.
About an hour later, there was a knock on the door, which was either our guests our our pizza. It turned out to be our guests followed immediately by our pizza. That is what I would call perfect timing. BrynJoe and SignificantTraveler dove into the food and drinks with the ravenous abandon of people who hadn't tasted Western food in months --which is exactly what they were, so it was kind of fitting. Between mouthfuls, BrynJoe kept talking about how his various milestones of culinary arts (teaching his cooks how to make tortillas, attempting to make french fries out of African potatoes) never quite measured up to their American counterparts. This pizza was clearly more satisfying.
Their flight was at 6:30 AM, so they had to leave around 4:30 to have a chance of making it. We were up till 1 drinking and chatting. Stories were told, lives were caught up, and interesting news was shared. And throughout, our guests were marveling at all the things they'd missed most. SignificantTraveler was happy just to be able to surf through hundreds of cable channels. BrynJoe gleefully fiddled with the touchscreen interface on my iPod. They both marveled at the page-load speed of our high-speed wireless internet. The comforts of Western civilization were out in force.
I was sorry to have to go to bed and say goodbye. It was an evening of firsts. BrynJoe became the first family member to see the new apartment. I became the first family member to meet SignificantTraveler (you'll love her, Mom). And my brother and I talked face to face for the first time in 18 months. The World Room was truly Worldly that night, lodging two globetrotting expatriates who were in town only briefly between flights. I lent them some coats (they have little need for fleece in Sudan but it's cold as balls in New York), left some extra towels out, and said goodnight.
I think I only got about five hours of sleep (still two more than they got), but it didn't matter to me this morning. I don't think I've ever been so glad for a family member to miss a connecting flight. One man's inconvenience is another man's entertainment, but I think it's safe to assume a good time was had by all. I would have met up with both of them on Saturday anyway when we all arrive in Alabama, but still I feel buoyed by this unexpected party.
Between this and my excellent weekend trip (a story deserving of a post of its own), this week has already proven to be infinitely more enjoyable than the last.
"Hello?"
"Do you have a couch and a good late-night pizza place?"
It took a moment for that statement to settle in my brain.
"Uhh...late-night pizza?"
"It's your brother, man. I'm in Newark."
Barring Marcel Marceau, I think he's officially the last person I was expecting to hear on the other end of that phone. After all, he's in Africa. Maybe that's why my brain didn't register whose voice it was at first. It turns out that my brother from the Dark Continent had missed his flight to Michigan out of Newark because his flight in from a tiny Middle Eastern nation had arrived too late. He and his girlfriend were stranded in the Big Apple until their flight out in the morning. Naturally, they called me.
After giving them directions and the specific instructions which they should pass on to their cabbie, I decided that we needed more beers in the fridge for this auspicious event. That, and I figured a beer or three was probably high on the list of things that these wayward travelers would require, since the beer selection in Sudan probably leaves something to be desired. I ordered a pepperoni pizza from the best New York-style pizzeria in Astoria, thinking that greasy American food is probably also something in short supply in Sub-Saharan Africa. JimmyLuke set about making the place a little more presentable.
About an hour later, there was a knock on the door, which was either our guests our our pizza. It turned out to be our guests followed immediately by our pizza. That is what I would call perfect timing. BrynJoe and SignificantTraveler dove into the food and drinks with the ravenous abandon of people who hadn't tasted Western food in months --which is exactly what they were, so it was kind of fitting. Between mouthfuls, BrynJoe kept talking about how his various milestones of culinary arts (teaching his cooks how to make tortillas, attempting to make french fries out of African potatoes) never quite measured up to their American counterparts. This pizza was clearly more satisfying.
Their flight was at 6:30 AM, so they had to leave around 4:30 to have a chance of making it. We were up till 1 drinking and chatting. Stories were told, lives were caught up, and interesting news was shared. And throughout, our guests were marveling at all the things they'd missed most. SignificantTraveler was happy just to be able to surf through hundreds of cable channels. BrynJoe gleefully fiddled with the touchscreen interface on my iPod. They both marveled at the page-load speed of our high-speed wireless internet. The comforts of Western civilization were out in force.
I was sorry to have to go to bed and say goodbye. It was an evening of firsts. BrynJoe became the first family member to see the new apartment. I became the first family member to meet SignificantTraveler (you'll love her, Mom). And my brother and I talked face to face for the first time in 18 months. The World Room was truly Worldly that night, lodging two globetrotting expatriates who were in town only briefly between flights. I lent them some coats (they have little need for fleece in Sudan but it's cold as balls in New York), left some extra towels out, and said goodnight.
I think I only got about five hours of sleep (still two more than they got), but it didn't matter to me this morning. I don't think I've ever been so glad for a family member to miss a connecting flight. One man's inconvenience is another man's entertainment, but I think it's safe to assume a good time was had by all. I would have met up with both of them on Saturday anyway when we all arrive in Alabama, but still I feel buoyed by this unexpected party.
Between this and my excellent weekend trip (a story deserving of a post of its own), this week has already proven to be infinitely more enjoyable than the last.
Tuesday, December 11, 2007
Insult to Injury
Tests finally graded. Urge to kill...fading. Time to relax with a little music.
...Only to find that my damn MIDI cable has ceased to function so that my digital piano has become as useless as a thing with keys that emits no audible sounds. Even my attempts to unwind are causing me stress.
Why can't it be vacation yet?
...Only to find that my damn MIDI cable has ceased to function so that my digital piano has become as useless as a thing with keys that emits no audible sounds. Even my attempts to unwind are causing me stress.
Why can't it be vacation yet?
Sunday, December 09, 2007
Quiet Ineptitude
It's been a couple weeks since I've posted anything. Well, there's a reason for my recent silence. Lately I'm finding myself distinctly unable to perform certain required tasks. I've fallen well behind in my grading. Roughly three week's worth of laundry went unwashed for far too long. Papers for grad school that should have been written long ago are as yet undone. Strangely, I'm not bothered about these things. At least, I'm not as bothered as I should be. An odd calm has accompanied this recent dearth of work, as if I had neither the will nor ability to complete these functions.
Quite likely, my mood stems from my downwardly-spiraling personal life, which has resulted most directly in the termination of my relationship with PianoGirl. We attempted to reconcile two weeks ago, after about three weeks of very little talking and absolutely no personal contact. Nothing was even said about the disagreement that had caused our rift in the first place, our divergent opinions of her family. Instead, we avoided the confrontation entirely. A ruse like that doesn't hold up for long.
Now looking back, the whole situation seemed doomed to failure. Arguments take on a new shade. Minor annoyances flare to huge confrontations. So many seemingly insignificant past events can seem like omens when viewed with the prescience of retrospect. It's not like I haven't been here before. Hell, it's not like I haven't been here many times before. Not that that makes it any easier.
What did I learn this time? What do I now have that's new --that's another clue to what the hell is going on in my head? 1stClarinet and I were mostly friends, though we certainly thought we were more sophisticated than we were. SlavicGroupie proved to me that a mutual fascination with physical intimacy was no basis for a relationship. MaasaiValley and I were never equally matched, though we tried to dance around the issue as much as possible. And ClovisByline showed me that being in love isn't enough if you aren't willing to change your life for your love. I'm still waiting for the grand revelation that this latest escapade will show. Maybe it's part of my self-destructive pursuit of women who need me more than I need them. Maybe it's another point on my seesawing graph between friendship and lust that plots out my past relationships. Maybe it's something altogether different.
I can't think about this any more. It's late, and there are tests I haven't graded. Along with everything else I listed at the beginning of this post. Oh hell.
Quite likely, my mood stems from my downwardly-spiraling personal life, which has resulted most directly in the termination of my relationship with PianoGirl. We attempted to reconcile two weeks ago, after about three weeks of very little talking and absolutely no personal contact. Nothing was even said about the disagreement that had caused our rift in the first place, our divergent opinions of her family. Instead, we avoided the confrontation entirely. A ruse like that doesn't hold up for long.
Now looking back, the whole situation seemed doomed to failure. Arguments take on a new shade. Minor annoyances flare to huge confrontations. So many seemingly insignificant past events can seem like omens when viewed with the prescience of retrospect. It's not like I haven't been here before. Hell, it's not like I haven't been here many times before. Not that that makes it any easier.
What did I learn this time? What do I now have that's new --that's another clue to what the hell is going on in my head? 1stClarinet and I were mostly friends, though we certainly thought we were more sophisticated than we were. SlavicGroupie proved to me that a mutual fascination with physical intimacy was no basis for a relationship. MaasaiValley and I were never equally matched, though we tried to dance around the issue as much as possible. And ClovisByline showed me that being in love isn't enough if you aren't willing to change your life for your love. I'm still waiting for the grand revelation that this latest escapade will show. Maybe it's part of my self-destructive pursuit of women who need me more than I need them. Maybe it's another point on my seesawing graph between friendship and lust that plots out my past relationships. Maybe it's something altogether different.
I can't think about this any more. It's late, and there are tests I haven't graded. Along with everything else I listed at the beginning of this post. Oh hell.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)