“Just imagine. We could get a house together. With my job, I could get tenure. I could have a secure future. We could have children and argue about the color of the room.”
“I want a light blue room. Nothing fancy, maybe some cartoon characters.”
“I love you.”

I sat across from her, not able to look at her directly. I stole quick glances of her when I wasn’t staring at my food. The peas did not touch the potatoes. The gravy did not spill onto the chicken. Nothing touched on the plate. It was perfect. She was sitting across from me, on the other end of the table. I did not want to disturb the sanctity of the plate. I did not want to violate the silence either. There was too much stillness in the room. The silence became more than just silence. It was filling the room up. How much silence could this room take? What would happen when silence fills the room? What would happen to our words? There was no conversation yet. We had sat down in silence. I wanted to ask her questions, but I couldn’t. I did not know how her day was. Would I know by the end of the night?

Did she get a seat on the train ride to work? What about on the way home? I don’t think she has looked at me yet. She looked at everything else in the room. I looked at my knife again. The tiny imperfections on it. The minor scratches, the wear and tear. It’s been, I wish this knife could talk. If it could tell me its story. I wish I could talk to her.

“Do you honestly think you could ever? Even if you were paid to do it?" “I don’t think so, not in front of all these people. Performance anxiety.” She laughed.

You had the prettiest laugh. I haven’t heard it in awhile. I wish I could hear it now. Your laughter, filling up the room. It’d be too loud against this silence. Your laughter would break the windows and shatter all the glasses. I’d pick up every piece of glass just to hear you laugh.

“You’re an asshole, you know that?”
“I think I do, unfortunately.”
“Are you happy with that?”
“I don’t think I should be.”
“Well, you shouldn’t.”

Like a church bell. You dropped your knife on your plate. You did not look up. I wonder if you will ever ask me how my day was. I don’t think you would have been impressed though. But you’d find something that interested you. Even the mundane can be fascinating to you. What are we going to do to fill the time before we have to go to bed? When I wake up tomorrow, will it be the same as today? Could I tell the difference?

I woke up to you not being next to me. You had already left. Being alone when I wake up is still something I am getting used to. I sleepily go to the shower. When I get out, I wipe the condensation off the mirror. I did not need to shave today. I toweled off and put on a pair of boxers. I turned the T.V. to the news. I checked the bottom left corner of the screen. It was sixty degrees. Beautiful for April. The sun was up. It caught something and shone in my eyes. I shut the blinds. It was going to be a good day. The rest of it was a blur. When nothing bad happens, nothing stands out. I wish I had more words to describe work. The time between, my mind was free to wander. I took too long at lunch, I was just not paying attention.

“But why can’t we? We have the time. I’m on the tenure track. There is going to be a future. Why not now?” I asked simply enough. I thought it made sense, life made sense.
“I don’t know. I’m not sure if I’m ready.” I couldn’t understand her logic. I wanted to shout out the reasons, but I let them go. I was upset that I did.

There were not a lot of students who needed my help. I’ll have to stay in my office until the time is up. Some asked about how they were doing in class. I slyly put it in their heads that there will be a quiz. I hope for eager discussion come Monday. Class went well. I taught well. Theory is not the easiest subject in the world. The grandiose concepts of deceased Frenchmen don’t translate well to half awake college students looking forward to the weekend. It doesn’t translate well to anyone. I came back, and saw you. I went out to the backyard. It was still light out. Enough light to read for twenty minutes. I sat down on the hammock. You demanded to have the hammock put in. One of the few things you have ever demanded.

“A hammock would be great. It’d be fun on those summer days. It’d make us always feel young.”
“How so?”
“It would feel like we were on the beach. No one feels old on the beach. It’s beautiful.”
“But it’s the winter.”
“Technically, it is the spring. You should know about semantics. Shouldn’t you Mr. Teacher?”
“Actually, the technicalities always escape me. I’m no grammatologist. You know me, it’s all about theory. I’m a visionary.”
“Me too! I have a vision that I will be sitting here reading in a month.”
“You and your smart mouth.”
“Is it really?”
“I can’t resist.”

I’m startled by nothing. I’ve drifted off. Has it been an hour? Or more? Would she stay here until I left? I can hear the clock ticking. Only five minutes have passed. That’s it? It seemed longer. But everything seems longer when you are waiting. I don’t exactly know what I’m waiting for. I don’t think she knows she is waiting either. The food is probably cold by now. The gravy has broke the sanctity of the plate. It has touched the chicken. Even food needs to be touched, to feel. I’m too preoccupied with trying to avoid looking at her. Everything reminds me of anything. Our minds can make connections that make no sense whatsoever. I continue to try and make my food to be more than just food. It kind of reminds me of the Sistine Chapel. The part where the two touch. It’s sort of like that, I guess. How long will this last? Before I could think about it, the silence ended.

“I’ve been thinking.” She said, maybe too loud, maybe not loud enough. Her eyes looked up. I was taking a sip of water. I dropped the glass. It shattered on the floor. “I’ll get that.” I turned away, I could feel her eyes on me. It was a start.

I'm almost regular with these things. I got my bio test back, that B is real close.

I'm in an editing bootcamp kind of thing. It is just making my writing more effective. I need that for being a teacher.

Work is work, nothing special there. If I lost my hand making a shake, I'd have something to write, but, unfortunately, I didn't.

Shouldn't that be fortunately? The etiquiette dinner sucks. I wanna talk and be social. Instead it was stuffy and formal. I guess that was the point of it.

I schooled my GST test. I rushed through it to leave early, but i couldn't. I was more than disappointed. Instead, I had to sit through the class. It does not pertain to me a lot, so I gotta suck it up.

I hate people who always think they are right. They have an opinion and answer for everything. But you know what they really do? They make me late. I just think they like hearing themselves speak. If they could clone themselves and marry that clone, they would. And that annoys me. They become little amoeba.I hate amoeba. They don't do much, they chill and just spin in a circle. Actually, that doesn't seem all that bad. But, still you shouldn't get married with yourself. Imagine the arguments. Domestic abuse is going to skyrocket.

The sun has set on another Monday. I could be doing so much more, with all my effort. I don't, I'm fine with that. Productivity is arbitrary. I'm getting used to things I thought I got used to. I hate going in circles. Life is a big circle. But I don't hate life. Go figure.

Throw your diamonds in the sky. Being random has its benefits. So does being predictable.

I've read some of my stuff that I've written. I'm surprised at the work I've done. The words that have come from me. I wish my hands weren't as ugly. The words may be prettier if that was the case. But I try my best. I think I wrote the best intro of my life awhile ago. I need to find it. I need to have a story attached to it.

I didn't have any classes today. I had work. It was work. The class I TA for went smoothly. I need to finish reading.

It was warm out, I said to him. Indeed, the weather is charming, he replied. I felt like I was in an old black and white movie. Talking in code. There is so much more to words. If on top of English, we had to learn code. Who would we share that with? Could we ever separate the two?

I want to start writing soon. But I can't force myself to. I never had any method to write, why should I bother now?

It got dark real quick. It's time for the lights to be turned on.

*Foreigner is playing*
:"I want to play this song when I have sex for the first time."
*It feels like the very first time*
:"Wait, you haven't had sex before. How can your first time feel like the first time?"
:"Exactly. That's why it's ironic."

Needless to say, it's early. I needed to share that snippet of conversation because that is my life. It was only an hour ago too. At least the sun is out, and it looks like it will be a warm day.

Haha, I tend to do this a lot. Start and stop. It's common with my life in all fairness. I start many things and rarely finish. But since I've last written: I haven't written anything significant, I am busy with school, I still have short hair, I work in the dining hall and serve ice cream.

I don't think there has been anything utterly drastic that most people haven't known about. Aside from that though, the weather is getting nicer.
I'm getting in touch with Hemingway a lot more. My thesis is going along smoothly. Needless to say, culture, identity, and I get along like old friends at a bar. I got a hat with a bear holding a club in it.

I think animals need weapons. It levels the playing field. Bears with guns would be ridiculous though. But awesome. Just imgaine an army with well trained and armored bears holding machine guns. Terrorism would be non-existant thanks to that.

I am in need of a new pair of shoes. Hopefully slip-ons. I like feeling like an old man. A stylish one at that though. I wish I felt more creative. I loved writing, but can't fit it in my schedule. It got me sad for a bit. But all will be well.

I have free time and now can read for pleasure. I miss the days.

The days are longer. The sun a little stronger. Everyone is feeling a lot better. That's good for me.

I want to live in a black and white movie. Or be Cary Grant or the Bogart. That'd be awesome. But I wouldn't be who I am. Just imagine what would happen if you were different in just one way. It'd be like A Wonderful Life, but less message-y.

That's cause life doesn't have a message. Let's be honest here. If life had a message, it would be worthless to live. I would not want to live because, frankly, I know what the message will be when I'm dead. Suicides would be up too. Life's up to you. It always has been. Living life is great and challenging. That's the message I guess. It's like a Nike commercial. But, you can think of the universe but not the universe without you. I always was fascinated by that. The inter-connectedness of it all. But this is becoming a message.

I feel like dancing but don't have any dancing shoes. I'm actually happy but busy.

I'm reading Extremely Close and Incredibly Loud. It's been worthwhile and definitely fascinating.

More to come, if I can remember.

I have 10 messages in mail.com, none important. I got 4 soy milks from late night.
It's Friday, nothing to do. My phone is getting a lot of battle scars.
I should/could be doing work, I'm not This'll be the most productive I'll be.
I'm merely posting, sad? I succeed a lot but seem to be disappointing
I beat kimball again soccer I have a lot of time on my hands
It's 11:46, I should be doing something Music is quite soothing
I'm just getting lazier I might write another story
I'm moody I got published, surprising, maybe desperation?
I shaved my head I kicked my sandals off somewhere
I'm listening to music Do I have any extra pillowcases?
I'm switching it to something more mellow What is the point of this post?
That's better School is boring, and it's almost over
I'm kinda behind in school work The semester, and I'm going to be a junior
There are pants hanging from my window I wish I had cool facial hair
I need to clean up my room soon I wish a lot of things
I'll change my sheets too but who doesn't?
they'll be blue I'm not complaining
that rhymed It's more reflection
that didn't Yeah that's the ticket

Dan woke up this morning after a difficult night. He couldn't fall asleep. He hasn't been sleeping well of late. He was busy, had a job, but didn't have the tangible quality of life. He had nothing to hold on to. Yesterday night, Dan was staring at himself in the bathroom.

"What will happen to me when I die? Who will be there? Will anyone miss me?" It could just be the weather, it has been gray and raining for the past week, the weather usually affects how one thinks. When it's raining, the day is longer, everything is slower. The rain trickling down the window pane, slow and steady, rolling onto imperfections, the course changes. Looking out the window, seeing the rain collecting on the petals, weighing them down until finally they bow to the ground, releasing all that was held. Life was made up of these events that tie everything together. He is alone at night, and during the mornings. There are too many quiet moments. The floors echo and no one is there to respond. For the whole week it has been raining, there have been chances to escape this solitude, but not with someone else, it has always been Dan. The gym is perfect for escape. Everyone is focused on themselves. The only thing that is real is what you see in the mirror. Actors on the screen and characters in books serve their purpose of distraction. But what does it all mean? The night is just darkness without a meaning, there is little to hold on to. The sheets and pillows contain only silhouettes of an image. Dan has been staying up late, watching movies until he can't keep his eyes open. He needs to get out, he's had chances but he's refused for no reason. Today is Sunday, tomorrow will be Monday, the start of the week and the beginning of another void full week filled with work and escape.

"He looks like my neighbor, I've seen him at the gym, I bumped into him once in the subway . . . I think, she looks familiar, I've seen her buying groceries, that woman always parks on that street," he said to himself while walking. He just got off the subway, 7:52 a.m., just another face in the sea of people who got off that stop. It was the beginning of the week. Everyone was going back to work. Where did these people come from? They were all strangers to him, and he was a stranger to them. On his walk to work, along the eight blocks to the office building, he passed what seemed like a hundred people. He would be able to focus on one face in the crowd. This person would be the focus of all his attention for that split-second before his eyes caught onto another face. In the ten minutes it took him to get to work, he grabbed a coffee from the same guy he always got it from. The guy whose name he never knew, smiled, and asked,
"The usual?"

"Yea," he grabbed the paper, paid and was on his way again. Even this person, who he interacted with every day was a stranger. At the building, he showed the security guard, his I.D., he rushed to the closing elevator, once again surrounded by no one.

The office was quiet. It was a moderately sized place, and was fairly successful. He did well enough and was there long enough to have his own corner office. He had a window hae constantly stared out of. He always kept the door open, he felt too enclosed in his own office, but it wasn't as bad as being in a cubicle. Today was going to be a slow day. He was caught up with work, and he had few new accounts to update. He finished those before lunch. He walked around the office, talking to people, asking if there were any problems. Unfortunately, there were none. He took lunch early. There were three interviews scheduled after lunch he had to deal with. All the information on the resume, the academic and work life detailed and laid out for him in this resume, did not bring him any closer to the people he interviewed. He did not look forward to this part of the day. He ate lunch at a small diner, reading after he finished his lunch. He put the book down to stare out the window, and all the people passing his gaze. He almost wanted to be someone else. There was so much that other people seemed to do. They were so much busier, so much more entertained, so fulfilled. Each stranger had this air of satisfaction and completion. Strangers always took on this role, that in some way their lives held more importance. That was the mystery with strangers, no one ever knows if their life is more important than another stranger. Dan was feeling this way. No matter the success he had, or the things he had in his apartment, there was still that gaping maw of a void, threatening to swallow his existence. But it wasn't at the same time. Out the window he sees a possible Olympic athlete, a multimillionaire CEO, a best-selling novelist. But were they really? Or were they just wearing a track suit, a nice suit, or an artistic beard? On his way back to work he passed Jim, his boss

"Hey, want to come out tonight? We're going to a bar to watch the game. Up for it?"

"Sure, I've got nothing planned."

"Great, we're going to meet at O'shea's around 8."

"I'll see you there," he had not been out in a while. He spent most of his free time going to stores, buying books, watching movies. He was a singular person. After all the rain, the quiet, Dan needed this chance to go out. The noise, the distraction are welcome changes to Dan's entirely sullen and morose nights, as if a widow mourning the passing of a loved one. He was a widow in a wake, except he had no one, there was no one, it was him and his distractions, which made it all the more worse. The interviews in the afternoon were the same as every other one he has ever conducted. The same questions, the same eagerness. They were not hiring but it was always good to have a store of names, just in case.

After work he went into a store to browse. He looked over the magazines and none caught his eye. They were all the same, a barely clad woman and advice about sex. He passed by the movie theater before going to the subway. He saw a movie the week before. It was empty in the theater so he had a chance to relax after an abnormally stressful Friday. Walking to the subway, he saw the effects of the warm weather and the upcoming months. Couples were closer together, people were a lot happier. He couldn't remember the last time he went to a movie with a date, or took a stroll on a day like this. Last week seemed like a distant memory with this weather. The sun was out, the weather warm, everything seemed so alive. It hit him and he wished he was a kid again, going on that first date to a movie. The nervousness involved, the questioning of every action. The glances over. Dan couldn't remember a time when he was so fully aware of himself and every action, conscious or subconscious. He went on the train and breathed in the all too familiar smell of the subway, got off after two stops, and walked to his apartment. He said hello to his neighbor, a young woman in her mid 20's, dark-haired and not tall but not short. She had invited him over for dinner several times, but he always had something to do, was always busy. She started to speak but he interrupted,

"Hey, do you want to come over for dinner? I'm not that bad of a cook, I'm getting better . . . I think. And if that's not any good, I at least got a decent movie we could watch."

"Sure, why not. What time?"

"Is 6 good?"

"Sure, but I have to meet my sister around 8."

"Haha, okay, I'll see you at 6." He opened the door and hung up his coat. He had no idea what to make for dinner. He took off his suit, laid it on the bed. He put on a T-shirt and went into the bathroom. He looked at himself in the mirror. He was only 29, still young, right? He touched his cheek just under his eye. His fingers feeling his face, he leans forward to get a closer look. He stares at himself, unable to remember when was the last time he looked at himself in the mirror.
"I'm Dan, I'm Dan, I'm Dan" he whispered to himself. As if waking up, he rushes back to pull on a pair of jeans, realizing he has spent more time than he wanted on getting dressed. He feels like that distant child on a first date, fully aware of everything. He heads toward the kitchen. He has decided on lemon chicken with lightly buttered and spiced pasta. This is one of the few dishes he knows how to make fairly well. He only has one bottle of wine in the apartment. It is a red wine and doesn't know if it goes well with the chicken.
"Ah, fuck it, who cares anyway?"

The food is just about ready when she knocks on the door. His hands dampen a little. He is unsure of what he is wearing, but he has no time to change. He opens the door and sees her there. She has her hair pulled back in a ponytail. She is wearing a black sleeveless tee and jeans.

"I was worried I was underdressed . . . well, it's too late to worry, come in. Dinner is about
done," he said as he led her to the kitchen.

"I like what you've done with the place," she said. He had a few paintings up, mostly famous ones. He had a black leather sofa, a coffee table covered with magazines. Enclosing the T.V. were his bookcases, one filled with books, the other DVD's. He had a rack of music in the corner and a stereo at the opposite end. His kitchen comprised of a small table with only two chairs, a fridge, stove, and a microwave. He never bothered to fully decorate, he got by with the essentials. This was the second woman to enter his apartment; the first was his mother.
"Really, Amy thanks, I know it's not much, but, I'm happy with it," he said while poring the pasta onto the plate. He sat her down and put the plate in front of her. She inhaled the air and smiled at Dan. He was relaxing now, feeling more at ease. He didn't know how to explain his feelings. He liked Amy, but there were no previous feelings of wanting to get to know her better.

"So what do you do for a living Amy?"

"I'm an investment banker down on Wall Street. I'm not there advocating for equal treatment, or 'girls are better than boys', I'm there because I like business, I like money, I like the fast paced environment. I need to be constantly working, and I love it. What about you Dan?"

"I'm an accounts manager for Anderson and Jacobs, down by 58th Street. I hate it there. I sit around, doing nothing. I update accounts, file them, set up new ones, talk to the people who have the accounts. I do absolutely nothing but I get paid well for it. Every time I step into that office I can't wait to leave it. I use to interact with the customers, now all I do is manage the customers. I got into business to make it accessible to people, if more understand it, the smarter they become, and smarter people invest more and make better decisions. It was a grad school dream that was slain by uncompromising reality," he laughed, "I'm sorry if I'm a downer, I haven't had the chance to vent with someone in a while. I don't know, I guess just . . . sometimes you just want something."

The conversation took an abrupt silence. He felt terrible, thinking that he lost whatever he had built up. Amy had stopped chewing her food, she furrowed her brow, she looked worried.
"You know, you're absolutely right. Sometimes you just want something. I've lived in that apartment for three years, and you are the only person I've talked to. It's so weird, because all the people I see, all the people I work with, all the people's money I handle, and yet there is nothing. I've tried to keep busy." As she was saying this, all he could think of was the subway.
"I guess we forget about it since it's so easy to escape," he said looking at her eat, "there are just so many ways around it. You fall into this routine and that helps ease each day, and each day that routine gets more concrete and that becomes realer than life. You kind of stop noticing that you're running away from it all," he said while looking at his bookcases. They fell silent again, the room somber with recognition. He looked at the clock, almost 7. In an hour this will end, and life will continue again. They finished eating, and each had a glass of wine. Amy got up from the table, and walked to the bookcases. He followed, and went to the music rack, he grabbed a CD, and put it on. She let her fingers touch the bindings of the books, each a way to a different world, a different life. She was held by the books, fascinated by the titles and of the possibilities.

"Hey can I borrow this sometime?," she said, holding a book of Lorca's poetry.

"Go ahead, any time you want something, I'll be here." They both looked at the time and realized it was time to go. She smiled and held the book close to her chest. She looked at the watch on her wrist.

"I gotta go, thanks for dinner Dan," they were standing close to each other, she turned toward the door, he opens it,

"Thank you Amy, take care. Next time if you don't want my cooking I know a good Chinese place," he sees her walk to her apartment, not looking back. He closes the door, uneasily. It was a warm night, he wouldn't need to change, all he need was a light jacket.

He reached O'sheas at 8. He saw Jim at the pool table. He thought he recognized John, Eric, and Terry from accounting. He ordered a beer and walked to the pool table.

"Hey Dan! Up next for pool?"

"Yea, sure. I was pretty good once."

"You sound like a hustler, I better watch out!"

He watched the game, sipping his beer. The place was crowded, O'shea's offered 10 cent wings for
Monday Night Football. Dan used to play pool to eat. At college, he played for 5 or 10 dollars, whatever he needed to get by. He never hustled, he needed the money and didn't have enough to mess around. Playing Jim was no contest. The pool stick glided through his fingers. All Dan could think about was the stroke of each shot, the way the stick recoiled a little after a hard shot, the full sound of a ball going into a pocket. He barely looked at Jim during the game and only stopped to sip on his beer. He continued playing pool, beating John, Eric, and Terry. He also beat a man who challenged him for the table. Dan got bored and left the table to join Jim at the bar. He took a stool next to Eric and ordered another beer. The game was on, the two teams hadn't scored yet. All Dan could think about was the dinner. Jim turned into Amy. Amy was sitting across from him, laughing, setting down her fork.

"...haha, really? Wow, I thought I was bad. One time this guy comes for an interview. I haven't done too many interviews, Dan, so I was nervous. Alex was on vacation so I had to cover his part. Well, he didn't have much on his resume but what was important was what he was doing. He was dressed in a T-shirt and jeans. I asked him the questions I was asked in my interview, "Why do you want to work here? What are your motivations? What would you bring to the company," and the guy got upset. 'Are you accusing me of lying? You don't like me do you? Well, I don't want your pity', he gets up and starts yelling, not with words, just one long yell. Everyone stopped what they were doing to watch. For like a minute he yelled, and then he just stopped, grabbed his resume and left. That was a strange day."

"Wow, I wish I could've seen that," he said.

"Well, maybe you can."

"Really? How?"

"Well, we have camera's everywhere, and we videotape the interviews for further feedback. We tell people that before the interview. Well, we show that tape at the Christmas party, it's always a highlight,"she smiled coyly at Dan.

Dan was finishing his sixth beer. He didn't remember how he drank so much, but somehow he did. A beer was constantly in his hand. Jim made him take a shot after each team scored, it was on him and he couldn't refuse. By the time the game was about final, so was Dan. The game was almost over, the score was 28-17, with a minute left to go in the fourth quarter.
"Hey Dan, we do this every Monday, don't be a stranger." Dan started walking out the bar, almost forgetting his jacket. He went back, found it by the pool table and started to the subway again. He was feeling light and enjoying the taxi's that were passing by, the lights cutting through the black night. He walked a couple of blocks up, instead of catching the subway. He was enjoying the night. He liked walking the city streets, looking at the people, being surrounded by everyone. The countless times he walked to Times Square, the place alight in the night, a beacon to the rest of the world. He, with what seemed like the rest of the world, went down to the Times Square Station. There was a troupe of musicians playing paint cans and other homemade instruments. Another crowd surrounded a silver mime moving to music. The train was in the station as he got in. He ran and made it. He walked through the cars until he reached the last one. This one was closest to the exit. The train rocked back and forth and he was feeling the alcohol. He had his head down, not wanting to look at the faces. He stumbled onward to his apartment. The blocks were longer than he remembered. He didn't want to wait for the elevator and staggered up the six flights of stairs. He got to his door and fumbled with the keys, dropping them with an audible crash.
"Shit." He picked up the keys finally finding the right one. He opened the door and leaned on it. The effect of so much alcohol in less than two hours was getting to him. In the time it took him to get to his bed, revisiting the day, talking to no one but himself.

"Sometimes you look back and think, 'What could've been?' There have just been so many chances to do something, to be with someone, anyone." he enters his kitchen and opens the fridge door, looking for nothing.

"We are alone our whole lives, yet we aren't." He is in the bathroom now, once again looking at himself.

"Will I forever be just staring in the mirror, wondering where my life has gone, where have I been? 'I'm afraid', or 'I don't know what it means to be frightened but not at the same time', I'm only 29! I sound like I'm 50. I'm not though, I have a life to live still."
He started laughing, realizing he was at the mirror again. He finally took off his jacket and sat on the couch. He found the remote control and held it in his hands. He waited a second to let the room settle around him. He turned on the T.V., blankly acknowledging the nightly news. It was the usual affair, a trial, some politician, everything just blended in. He was getting tired. He had work in the morning. He shut the T.V. off and was going to bed. He was having a long day, it was only Monday. To think it was the beginning of the week. In this one day, in the span of 24 hours, he had done more, had been more productive than he had been in a month. Even when he bought 10 DVD's, 7 books, and an entire pot and pan set couldn't compare to the day he just had. But even with all this activity, with all this eventful know, he still felt empty. He was unsure of what he was doing. He thought he liked Amy, she was smart, funny, and good-looking. He didn't know her too well and was not sure if she liked him. It could also just be the alcohol influencing him. He was a man at the crossroads, too many options and not enough brain to function right then and there. He was confused, what to do?

"What about Amy?" There were no plans for a second dinner, although he wanted to see her again.
"Is she sleeping? Should I go over and knock? Maybe I'll slide a note under her door asking for a date. Maybe something will happen. Do I like her? I feel like a boy with a crush. But not tonight, not tonight, I'm too drunk. I'll figure it out in the morning." He got up from the couch and turned to the bedroom. He heard a knock at the door he opened it and saw Amy's face.
"Hey, I saw you stumble into the train car. I was on my way home from my sister's, you looked pretty drunk."

"Really? I'm still drunk. Did you watch me walk home too?"

"If you want to call that walking, yeah, you looked like a zombie from those horror movies. Just
shuffling along. You okay? Do you want me to go or can I stay for that good movie?"

"Haha, yeah, come in. What are you in the mood for? "

"Something scary."

"I have just the ticket."

This past weekend was full of events. But which day and which weekend isn't? But this weekend was rather unusual. The drinking and partying weren't, but there was something else. As I do everyday, I sit at the edge of my bed and use my computer. Well, there is apparently a breaking point. I sat down on the bed and heard an echoing crack. I wondered what it was and was rather perplexed. Turns out the frame snapped. I guess it was just tired.

My sword was also broken. It was plastic and didn't cost a thing, but it held a lot of value. It will be missed.

Spring break is Friday. Time goes by quickly and yet it seems like just yesterday I was complaining about how far away break was.

I'm writing a paper and I'm taking my sweet time with it. I just need a page and change more and I shall be done.

It went from warm to freezing in one day. That is so dumb.

There shall be more thoughts, as there was a brainstorm of ideas yesterday. Most of them delicious.

These are some things I think:

There are too many people on the planet

There needs to be an all marshmallow cereal

Kids are getting lazier

Stupid people need to be put in their place, sometimes

Same goes with smart people

We should read more

I watch a lot of T.V.

We need to be better spellers

I will be a good teacher

A lot of white people look alike

In fact, a lot of people of all races look alike

Spending a lot of time on your hair to make it look messy is ridiculous

I haven't met a man named Raul yet

Nor a Julian

There are too many shows on T.V. that have no redeeming value

The world isn't going to hell in a handbasket

I like being silly, and when others are too

It's the parents fault, not the media

We should live on the moon

Get cracking on making a time-machine

Find out what's really going on in Area 51

we need to consolidate all the religions into one big super religion

Cults are funny, but like anything fun, can be harmful

Cows were put on the Earth for us to eat, and to clothe us

Vegetarians are over-reacting

Same goes for any activist

AIM is one of the best inventions...ever

Somethings in life are meant to be pointless

A life full of only meaningful things is too difficult to lead

A good bathroom break can make a day

More to come, this are just a small list

Jim winked at her, “Bye, Arlene. Take good care of the old man.” A coffin on wheels is his bed., at five in the afternoon. Past the blackberries, the reeds and the hawthorne. I get into bed and move clear over the edge and lie there on my stomach.
Banderillas They were tubbies my god

I pour the water in the pot, it is August. When I took her to the river. He opened, locks the front door.
Cables fast astern, but that was not humorous to Julian
I behaved like what I am, this fat man, she sits there, he was a neighbor. The Stones were due back.

Good Evening, barked very far from the river.
I will not see it!
And a thigh empty and he went for another drink.
The starch of her petticoat
And the oxide scattered crystal and nickel
I feel depressed, he might hear the cat
moving about, she her four bodices.

The bass-string stuck up, “Have I really?” he said, His name was Wobbly. That’s a funny story. Cogida and death. Nickel.
Death laid believing She was a maiden.
Sounded in my ears, I feel it.
Rudy is warm the jasmines.
Grey bull gets up sound like rent.

So on they fought like a swirl of living fire
She was wearing jodphurs and carrying her rifle.
Tell the moon I had their picture
Waiting for what?
He’s sleeping with some concierge
the sportifs passed her of Guisando
green groins Oileus down despite the Trojan’s rage

Tell the moon Andalusian with effort
small white snails life going to change
lifeless dainty spikes of hyacinth
by ten knives horizon of dogs

He has been on the corner of 8th Street for as long as anyone could remember. He was a staple of the town. Don’s Barbershop, that was the name on the hand-painted blue and white sign. There was only one other barber in town, but he was rarely frequented. There was something about Don that made people get a haircut from him. He was extraordinarily gifted with a steady hand. He always listened to the customer; they rarely complained. A mother came in once, complaining of an uneven haircut. Don refused to do anything, telling the mother how her son behaved.

"He was kicking, always moving, touching all of my things. He moved in the chair and that was what happened." He also repeated the words her son was so apt to yell. The mother just walked out, silent in shock. When the town tried to modernize, many of the smaller businesses left. They could not compete and the times were changing. The only survivors of the earlier times were Joe the butcher and Don.

Don had been cutting hair for about 27 years now. He was a veteran and one of his favorite stories were of his times in the war.

"The second week in the trenches, all the guys had time to spare. It had been a stalemate for a while now. Nobody doing nothing," He said while cutting hair.

"Well, John wanted a haircut, and I had with me one of those small travel kit sets. So right there in the trench, I started cutting hair. I was doing the touch-ups when a grenade was thrown near the trench. Dirt flew into the air and guns started rattling off shell after shell. John started to get up but I sat him back down, told him 'I wasn't done yet', and finished the job, straight and as true as can be."

Don was born to be a barber. He was always steady, good with lines, but he could not draw and that ended his dreams of being an artist. He tried to become an architect. He was smart and created excellent patterns, but he had no vision. One night when his father needed a quick trim, he turned to Don as a last resort. His father was unemployed and an alcoholic. He had an interview the next day for a job as a janitor. As Don started trimming, he had a real knack for it. He did it quickly and right the first time. This was the day he realized his calling as a barber.

There was another story Don had but never told. He was cutting his mother’s hair one night. His father came home, drunk and asking about dinner. He started yelling, calling her a whore, useless. She was sobbing as he slapped her. Don did not mess up then, but in a simple gesture, from the snip of a lock of hair, Don was on his father with the scissors at his throat.

"If you ever hit Ma again, so help me God." His father left the room, falling asleep on the couch. Don finished cutting his mother’s hair while she quietly sobbed.

Soon after his father left for good. Don has yet to see him again. His mother did not work, so he had to work to support both of them. He cut his friend’s hair, his mother’s friends, anyone so they could keep eating. He worked at the grocery store offering 3 dollar haircuts. They survived barely off these two sources of income. His mother met an elementary school teacher, and a week afterwards he was going to war.

Don practically lived in the shop. It opened up at 9 and closed at 7. His house was only a block away. He sometimes walked around the town, dropping in at the diner to grab something to eat. There was no one home for him. Everyone in town knew Don and he always carried that little travel kit. There was gun powder embedded in the scissors. People would ask for a trim on occasion, and in the street, he would tidy them up for 3 dollars.

At home, he read the newspaper or watched T.V. He rarely ate at home, the diner refused to ever let him pay for a meal. His work was his life and his home was a culmination of the failures in his life. He never found love, only met people here and there. He thought he found love in college, but it was only sex. He only knew of one true relationship, that of his parents, and that was a failure. Outside of work, there was little life to live. The solace of a job well done was his lone comfort. He did not even have a pet, it was too much work. He was scared to neglect it, to just leave it for work. He had no worries when it came to work. He could never abandon or neglect, work had no feelings. As he vacuumed up the hair and locked the door, this was the end of the relationship. In the morning it started all over again.

For a week, this woman kept coming in. She was a regular customer coming in once a month. She stayed a little longer every time to let Don finish his stories. He talked more with her, and she was equally as talkative. They found out a lot about each other through these stories, but he never knew her name. She worked as a teacher at the school her parents lived in Massachusetts, and her brother is a lawyer. He told her his war stories, funny stories of his friends in college. The one thing they shared was the lack of stories about love and relationships. That subject was carefully avoided by both parties.

She kept on bringing friends over, making small talk. He had fun that week, one of the few times he wondered what tomorrow would bring. He was sad on that Monday when she did not come in. She asked him out for a light dinner with her friends, but turned it down, told her he was busy. That was on Friday. He spent the weekend cleaning the house, throwing out old clutter, building new shelves. He found a box full of his mother’s things. She died six years ago, and he never looked at the stuff she had, just packed it up. He looked at the few photos of his parents when they were young, before everything went sour. They were truly happy their eyes were not fixed on the camera, they were fixed on each other. This is what could have been. There can be happiness. He began to realize why he was alone. He had only witnessed the collapse and not the passion. His parents did have a love, and they shared it. Youthfully and optimistically. He was not his father. There could be love in his life. He looked at this photo and started crying.

A month passed, and it was rather usual. This month was like every other. His regular customers came in, and he did their usual. She came in on the third week. She sat down quietly.

"The usual?" he asked.

"Yea, but I want it a little shorter," she said. He started cutting, both remained in silence. Their eyes told the real story. They could not stop looking at each other. He was finished and she got up and paid. She started to say something, but stopped. She walked to the door, and before she could leave he called out,

"Wait."

"Hmm?"

"Um, well, I was wondering if you wanted to get some dinner?" A smile lit up her face. "I would love to, but it’s only 5, and you close at 7."

"Don’t worry about that."

For the first time, he closed early.

Larry’s back was hurting. Today is Monday, yesterday was Sunday. There are a lot of cars in the shop today. Yesterday was full of bad weather. Torrential rain made driving hazardous. Larry worked on four cars before noon. All the lifting, bending, moving, taxed his lower back. His back has been hurting for a while now. The shipment of parts came in today. He moved all the cartons to the side. Johnny, the young highschool kid, was going to put them away. He saw the time, it was four, only an hour left. He sighed as he finished changing the oil on this car. The boss called him in, he told him to take it easy. He left the shop at 4:24. He got home by 5:00. His wife was surprised to see him home early. She smiled as she continued to prepare dinner and he sat on the couch. He took his shoes off. The couch hugged his back. The wave of relaxation hit, and all he could think about was Friday.

“How was your day?” She called from the kitchen.
“Busy, a lot of cars came in. I worked on eight cars today. We still have six left in the shop. Tomorrow we have four more scheduled to come in. Hopefully Lou will be back tomorrow.”
Dinner came and went. She talked about what was on T.V., what she read in the paper, and various bits of gossip heard from Diane. He listened, commented, and it was a regular dinner. In bed, he looked up at the ceiling. His back pain was disappearing into the mattress. His wife was sleeping silently, heavily, barely aged. He looked at his hands in the dark. He saw the outline shaking and unsteady. He was older than his years, and he could only think about Friday.

Tuesday was like every Tuesday he has ever worked. The one Tuesday he did not work, a famous celebrity visited the shop, looking at a vintage muscle car the shop had in the lot where the tires were stored. He wanted to buy it as a gift for his son. After that day, he has yet to miss a Tuesday. The cars came in and out, the cars already in the shop dwindled. There were a couple of oil changes, some asked about tire prices. One man argued with him, yelling that he was ripping him off after Larry found, while changing the oil, a problem with the brake line. His back pain gradually increased as the week progressed. Lou came in after a short vacation. At home, his wife rented a movie. It was a drama about love, struggle, and the good guy getting the girl in the end. She could not get enough of these.

Wednesday his back pain was at its worst. He changed the tires for six cars. He got up a little too fast, further straining his back. It was almost Friday. At home, his wife ordered from a new Italian restaurant. It was not bad, although the sauce was a little too salty.

“I can’t believe that Diane. What right does she have to snoop and become a part of everyone’s life? She needs to find a life for herself so she can stop living through others.”
“Calm down Larry” she laughed. You never liked her to begin with.”
“Never have and never will.”
“Well, she isn’t so bad. She’s kind of funny. She also bakes a delicious cake, and you know that.” Larry knew he lost the argument. He eased into the bed today, his back pain flaring up. A sharp intake of breath came as his back touched the gentle bed.

Thursday was the worst day for Larry. So close to Friday, but still two days away. His back pain was not as bad as yesterday, but he could still feel the strain. A car from a big wreck came in. The boss was delighted. There was body work to be done, windows, paint, tires, and who knows what else internally. Half of the day was spent figuring out what worked and what didn’t. The boss gave the man a discount, but was still going to make a huge profit. Today was his wife’s reading club. He ordered some take-out and spent the night watching T.V. He went to sleep early, knowing Friday was going to be a long day.

Friday he spent working on the wrecked car. Cleaning it up, removing the shards of glass. The doors were barely operational. Only the passenger side worked. The lights needed to be replaced. He hammered out some of the dents. Lou handled the finer details and the paint. He barely noticed his back pain on Friday’s. At 5, he started his Friday routine. He went to the diner, ordered coffee and pie. He read the paper and sat there for a while. He left around 6, greeting his wife as he got home. He asked about the book club, what she read and what she was going to read. He slept for a few hours. At 2:30, the alarm went off. He shut it off before his wife heard. She was a heavy sleeper. He got up, went to the dresser and pulled out a pair of shorts. He got in his car and started to drive.

It was a beautiful summer night, dark and cool. He knew this route, having done it for the last 5 years. He did not have the music on, the only noise was the wind rattling in from the window. It was a long drive, a preparation for what was ahead. He let the road do the talking. He was the silent spectator. The road talked to him through the various signs he passed, the turns he made. He saw the buildings in the distance get larger as he got closer. The trees were a blur, a wall of shadows. The night started to ease up and gave way to a lighter blue. It was close to part ways with the night. The silent passenger in this journey. The air became sweeter. It was 5:30, he was forty-five minutes away. He made the final turn and was near his destination. The pink of the early morning warmed him. He got out of the car, hearing the crashing echo so near to him. He went to the trunk and pulled a blanket out. Walking up a short flight of stairs, he crossed the boardwalk back down another flight of stairs. He laid the blanket down in the sand. He lied on the blanket, but quickly rolled onto the sand. The sand was cold and new from the night. He was enveloped in the warmth of the sun and the coldness of the sand. This was his second bed. Each grain of sand joining together to ease the man.

It was warm with a cool breeze. The sun was a beautiful in the early morning sea. The light shimmering in the crests of the waves. He lied there for half an hour. He watched the first seagulls fly around. He heard their distant cries that were soon drowned out by the rolling water. The sun was just about to rise as he made his descent into the ocean. IT was still cold, but he was unaware of that. This was a bed he could never buy. The sea cleansed and refreshed the tired worker. He swam a little, feeling the water move with him. The week was far away. The auto shop did not seem real. The lone figures in his life at this moment were the sand, sun, and sea. He climbed out of the ocean, the air warmer. He dried himself off. The sun had just risen. It was stark against the gentle sky. He smiled. It was going to be a hot day. He walked back to the car, he looked at the clock. It was 7:30. His wife liked to sleep in on Saturdays. He started driving back, a preparation for the week to come. Tomorrow is Sunday.

Dude....how's it going? I have kind of neglected my LJ. But I don't think so. I actually have posted a huge amount of content in such a short time frame. To think I posted 2 days in a row with nearly 5 posts, it really is an extraordinary feat. Anyways, school is the same ole. I'm kinda disliking my beat class, since the kids in it are rather blah. They get into the unimportant stuff, and focus less on the text and the authors. I'm eating a bannana and drinking some apple juice. Life is rather good, and delicious. I didn't go to chem today, so I don't know how I did on my test, but frankly I have no doubt I did well. I have a couple of ideas for stories, but little time to write them. I plan on writing them soon, maybe when I get another lull in my schedule. anywhoo..it was short, but more later.

Happy( Is anyone ever truly happy?)

A man calls in sick to work today. Every day this is a normal occurrence across America. But this call is different. The man behind the call has not missed a day in the twenty-two years he has been working for Shavitz, Inc. He was an exemplary worker, dedicated and intelligent. Before that he was an outstanding student. He has lived a life anyone would envy. He was a track athlete as well as a soccer player, an honor’s student, and was with the perfect girl, beautiful and intelligent. From highschool he went to a great college was a leader in and out of the classroom. Upon graduating he landed the job at Shavitz. He married his highschool sweetheart. He had everything, love and security. For the forty-three years of his life, he had everything to make a person happy. But today is a different day.

He woke up this morning uncomfortably. His clothes a little too tight, sore from sleeping wrong. His wife had already left, off to her morning jog. Running through the leave with the dew and fog of the early morning, it was definitely a sight that inspired. He could see why his wife ran. It was something serene and transcendent amidst the modern life. Getting up, he feels lost. He walks to the bathroom and looks in the mirror. He has this routine for as long as he can remember. But before starting it, he walked back across the bedroom and grabbed the phone. This is where the call takes place. His job does not question him, he has gained their trust, they wish him the best of luck. He goes back to his bed, and lies on top of the comforter. He looks at the bedside clock, 7:10, he looks outside the window and sees the gray autumn morning. He has never been around for when she comes back. This will be a surprise for her. He has long stopped surprising her. Life is a perpetual cycle, nothing ever going wrong or off track. She went jogging, he woke up, went to work, came back, had dinner, watched television and went to bed. He is reminded of the merry-go-round he loved as a child. When it was in motion, none of the kids would fall off. This was his life. Laying down, he can only think of his past. It has been a blur. He was never a risk taker but led an active life. He was always busy with either school or social obligations. His life was filled with events, but did any of it mean something to him?

This was the thought that stuck. He remembers the last few nights. He has not been sleeping well and on several occasions has woken up in the middle of the night. He has looked over to his wife during these times. In the silver moonlight, she was a stranger to him. She was not the same person as the young girl he fell in love with. They got married because that was expected. They provided each other with security and familiarity. Over time, they grew further apart. Not because of a lack of love, or because they changed. Rather, it was due to time running its course. What exactly was the problem? There is no way to pinpoint it. There were numerous things. They stopped talking intimately. Routine took over their lives. The problem was embedded, making it hard to see and focus on. He remembers the first time they had dinner where there was no conversation. They have been together for so long because that is all they know and had. To start over would be impossible. They had a life already built, why tear it down? The bed was no longer a place of desire; it was a place of rest. This was the first sign of the falling away. He still cared for her, but he could no longer show it to her. All the newness of love, of life was gone. There was no way to take her breath away like he used to. He remembers the first year they spent in the house, the showers together, the bathing quietly alone together. It was as if this lack was a disease that has spread throughout their entire existence. He has been staring at the ceiling, noticing the chips and cracks. He has not moved and does not plan to for a while. He moves his feet, uncrossing then re-crossing his legs. Was he having a mid-life crisis? Surely he wasn’t. He was a man who had it covered, a steady present and future. He didn’t want to run away, buy a new car, nor was he having an affair. He didn’t want to change his life. Rather, he was having a life reevaluation. He laughed off the mid-life crisis and just as soon another thought entered. This time it was a whisper. It was his wife’s when she was still young. “Are you truly happy?” was what he heard, and in response he heard his light-hearted response, “Is anyone ever truly happy?” Finally turning his head he sees it is almost ten. Surely she has finished running. She is probably getting groceries, stopping at the stores, looking at items she wants to buy, stopping by the diner to grab a light breakfast, a morning coffee with the paper. The idea of her having an affair seemed possible, but he was not upset. Surely, he was a part of the problem. She never raised any questions though. He knew she was faithful, she would have given up long ago if she was not. She was committed to this as much as he was. She was just like him. She would not want to tear this down either. This thought fluttered through like the wind blowing in from the open window.

He finally decided to get up. He slipped on his slippers, walked down the flight of stairs, through the kitchen to the backyard. He walked through the tress that skirted the little pond. It was a bonus to the already lovely house. It is rather warm, his slippers stepping lightly on the wet leaves. He reaches the little pond, sitting down stiffly on the cold rock. Looking into the pond he saw his reflection dancing with the four leaves that had fallen into the pond. The breeze pulling the leaves around the pond as if on an invisible string. He does not regret his life. It was not lived in vain. How could he change the only thing he knows?

He stays a while longer. Laying down he watches the sun’s movement through the trees. He has not given up. He gets up slowly, wiping the leaves off his back. “I’ll start something new” he says to himself, startled at this breach of silence. But what? He did not know himself, but he was sure it would come to him in the future. Maybe getting a dog, perhaps a vacation, just something different. Walking back, he hears rustling in the kitchen. He looks through the window and catches a glimpse of his wife. It was like seeing her from afar. The wind picks up, almost as if on cue. He walks the five steps to the door, figuring out the rest of his day perhaps the rest of his life. He opens the door and calls out “Honey?”

As many of you may I am a man of many vices, pleasure and eccentricities. I am also a man filled with guilty pleasures. Yet what tops all of this is my love for Michael Jackson. I LOVE Michael Jackson. Not his music, not what he has done for the industry, just the fact he is crazy. He's sooo crazy! I love it. I watched that MJ interview twice, each time going "Oh man this is too good, oh man this is great, more!" I love him. I can't wait for the trial. It's like crack for me. Whenever I talk about MJ I get excited, my voice gets higher and I flail my arms crazily. I can't get enough. If I was rich, I'd pay him 200 million dollars to write a full, no-holds barred, intimate detail laden autobiography. I'd read every page, look at whoever is around and go "OH man, you see this?, great great" turn the page "Oh man, it just gets better" I will buy any MJ biography that promises sordid details. Well, maybe not everyone, but definitely the most scandalous. The trial is coming up and I'm thrilled. I read some of what he was accused of online, what was in his bathroom and all the other stuff on thesmokinggun.com. I just love it. It's great to me. The weirder he gets, the better it is for me. I'm going to be sad when he gets too old to be crazy, he'll be a hermit and die. But then that's when it gets good again. All the juciness comes after death. Look at Diana, her affairs where all over the place a month after her death. She was well-liked and respected, for various reasons, and she got shitted on. The field day biographers are going to have on MJ's death will be one for the ages. If I don't have school, I'll be on the couch watching the trial. It's just fascinating, it is a case study in the making. How did he go so wrong? What happened that made him like this? Only time will tell and I will be transfixed as the story unfolds.

I still have a ton of school work to do and time is always short. It's 12:51 and I don't have much to write about. I have a huge growth on my nose, which is terrible and has been plaguing me for a week. I'm starting to write creatively which is a first and something I must capitalize on. I really enjoy literary criticism, it is great to talk theory, sound smart, and throw it down academically. I think that plus the fact I have a real grasp on the subject puts me at better odds than the rest. Hey, I like being the favorite. I posted a story, I guess comment on what could be, and technical mistakes. Don't rip me apart, I'm sensitive, or something. I haven't been in a funk in awhile and that has made me rather happy. I'm feeling invigorated. Not exactly inspired, but something close. I don't think I'm studying abroad. Way too much money, and I could do a lot more with that money that I will find truly rewarding. I like Apple Cranberry juice. I'm getting bored of school food. I'm going to the gym rather frequently. I'm getting in gear. I haven't looked at the stars in a while. My laptop feels warm, I'm going to open the window soon. Do you wonder what would've been? If only? If I wasn't born the same, or I was born to different people, different situations, etc? What happens when we die? Who has the right religion? Is there a right religion? Are we doing the right thing? Who judges that? Is any ever truly happy? What happens to life when we aren't there? What lies in the future? Who lies in the future? How many autumns will we see? So many questions...

I don't know if it is good or not. Simply I put it here because it entertained me for awhile. I had fun writing it even if it isn't the best.

Teacher

What happens when a teacher isn’t teaching? What kind of life do these teachers lead? I look at him now, fascinated with this question. I look around the room and see disinterest, boredom, sleepiness, false-alertness, but I am hypnotized. I have thought about this for a while now. It started when I saw him on the train after school. My stop was before his, so I was left with this unfulfilled feeling. I wanted to know. I needed to know where his stop was. It actually kept me up that night, pondering what kind of life he has lead. Was he a spy, a pervert, a family man? Did he live in a one-room apartment filled with junk or did he live in a home with a family? Is he lonely or is he truly happy? I barely slept that night, and every day in class I thought about it. In the past I had almost built up the courage needed to follow him, but I never went through with it. By now, it has been two weeks since I saw him on the train. I’ve timed his schedule, he usually leaves at 3:27 and catches the 3:35 train. In class while he is teaching, all I can hear is “Today is the day,” I’m going to follow through with my plan. I waited around a bit after school, talking to some friends. I cut the conversation short and head toward the train station. I look at my watch, it’s 3:33 the train is coming soon. He is nowhere to be seen. My heart drops when the train comes and he does not board. On the ride home, I think about how I will follow him home. “I’ll wait a little and then follow him, but at a distance.” My stop arrives and I slowly go home, satisfied and hopeful.

The next day is a blur. Classes skip in and out of memory and I can only think about one thing. The last class goes by, slowly, painfully. Each minute is an endurance test, and just before I leap out of my skin the day has ended. But the dilemma doesn’t stop there as I still have to wait until 3:27. I play basketball to pass the time and release some excess energy. The waiting period is shorter this time and I am on schedule. On the platform, I see him and I waver about going through with the plan. I’m in the same car as he, it is fairly crowded, he doesn’t know that I am there. I keep glancing over at him nervously, still unsure if I am going to go through with this. My stop comes and now a decision has to be made. I sit and the doors close. There is no turning back now and I gain new confidence. Finally he stands up, I want to leap out of my seat but with reluctant restraint, I wait. The doors open and he exits, I rush out before the doors close. I see him walking ahead and I begin to follow him.

I walk down the short flight of stairs and am immediately immersed in his world. It’s quiet, a few stores along the main street. He walks a few blocks, stopping in at a convenience store. I don’t go in, not wanting to risk what I’ve already accomplished. He comes out with a bag full of groceries. He turns the corner and I immediately follow. Finally he stops at his home. It turns out to be nothing special. It is just another home among the others in the row. The house is similar to the one on its left and on its right. Each has a tree in front of it and a garage on its side. His garage is empty. The door is closed and the blinds are drawn. This is the furthest I can go. The journey has ended, my quest over. I turn back. On this isolated road back home all I can do is think. Here is this teacher who is rather ordinary. He is just another person. There is no secret to him except his home. There is nothing outwardly out of place, nothing shocking. It is remarkably unremarkable. But this is ok. It makes him that much realer, no longer just a teacher. He is complete. He is just another person. I look at my watch and realize it’s 5:40, I don’t know how to explain this.

The trees sway gently to the light wind. The sun is beginning to set and everything is turning a cool shade. I walk past the landmarks of the street, the convenience store, the flower shop and the hotdog vender who is packing up. Things look slightly different, almost ghostly. It’s a different world now. I go back up the same steps and I wait to board the train. It’s a quiet ride back home. Getting out, I see the first stars begin to appear, signaling the start of night. Walking home, I keep staring upward, the leaves and branches sometimes blocking my view. I feel disorientated, disconnected from the world. I look at the stars through the trees, ever familiar to my eyes. I think of how we are all kind of like the stars, each individual and luminous, but only one of many. I catch a glimpse of my door, the journey now forever over. I open the door silently and I close it just the same.

It's the weekend and I've yet to do anything much of importance. Or that is what you are lead to believe. But in all honesty, you are correct. I don't do much, but I'm going well. I had the whole room to myself. It was cool, considering I didn't do anything wild, crazy, like late nights of drinking or bring over crazy friends, trash the room, and then wake up wondering where my pants are. Instead, I spent it reading, playing some poker, watching TV, playing videogames, and going to the gym. I lost 7 pounds but I still got a bit of a way to go. anywhoo...I ain't got much to write. Just felt like saying a little something about the weekend. A little heads up. Anywhoo...I got reading to do and all that, so I'll post more later when I might have something to say. I said I'd update I did!

Man, having internet is crazy. It's like I KNEW it was always there, and I kinda got used to the non-existence of said internet, but now that I have it back, it's like an old friend, we pick up where we left off.

Anyway, I'm pretty sure everyone knows I'm in Oswego now going to classes and being a student. What they don't know is.....I overslept my class today. But....at the same time, it allowed me to get my laptop back and be back online. A double-edged sword but I'll play with that, I'm a risk taker in the most calculated of senses. I have chem later today, but that class is a bore, and frankly I rock at chem, all is well.

My goal of getting a 3.7-3.9(I try not for perfection, there is room for improvement and anything lower than a 4.0 will be a failure, I take that into account) seems to be unthwarted so far and any major tacks in the tires of my plans seem to not be there, I should do amazingly well this semester.

I'm reading a lot, which is great, and writing a little more than normally. I'm getting a little sharper, expanding upon things and allowing a lot of things to crystalize when I once left them hanging in the breeze.

Spring break is soon, which is eye opening since it felt like I just started school. You find your niche, your groove, and then you get pulled away from it. But, I don't think it's a bad thing, since how do you know you'll sustain that momentum? You don't and a break before the breakdown is better than after.

Next week is the first week I have a test and a paper, and from there everything kicks into gear. But I am prepared for that and am not scared of how I'll do.

I still don't pay attention to tense, but I'm working on it.

The V-day is coming up...and frankly I never liked the day. It's blown out of proportion and is too commercial. Rather..I am getting something for Carly around the same time. I don't need a date to show someone how much I care about them. But the day kinda just reminded me so in some sense I'm getting something but not for V-day but because of V-day....I dunno I think it works.

I'll probably update more frequently than before, now that my internet is working. Of course any updating is more frequent thant before. I'm hungry....waiting