More pics from last nights Birthday Party found here
In class our teacher launches into a formal dissertation on the psychology of color which is positively miserable. Brutus begins plucking unsuspecting students, displaying them to the captive audience, lecturing excitedly on the hue of their t-shirt color. He spots my bright yellow shirt and his eyes narrow, I punch Nikki in the arm and say flatly, “Oh shit.” At the last minute King Lear thinks better of it, since we all know I’m not budging from my seat. Waves of relief ripple gently over me.
There is a fleeting moment of happiness when the bus begins to roll down the hill but it evaporates the moment I step on. The same thing happens every week: We spend at least fifteen minutes during class discussing how much we absolutely hate riding it. It takes longer than walking, it’s hot, we have to stand, and on and on and on. But somehow, every Tuesday and Thursday our limo fails to show up and we get on the thing. THE SAME THINGS HAPPENS EVERY TIME. I begin keeping track of how many times we cry, “It’s hooooot Nikki/Jessica/Michael!” but loose count after one hundred something. Ephemeral happiness flashes as I catch a reflection of myself in the windows and realize my hair has never looked better. My joy passes when a grouchy guy with admittedly good arm veins begins to crowd me and I resist the temptation to offer him a mentos.
Clarity comes as I step into Bexar Hall, drink a diet coke and eat some double-decker wheat thins with easy cheese. A Howie Day album drones on, Megan won’t take a nap with me on the floor, I snuggle with a stuffed pig, and realize life will go on. I miss my mom so much today and can’t stop thinking about analytic cubism. We take up fliratious poses, waiting for photographers who are always late.
Nikki starts to complain of shooting chest pains, quietly screaming, “I’m having a heart attack! My god, I can’t breathe!”
We stare blankly and don’t move, all lost in day dreams thick as falling timbers. Nikki continues complaining. Megan tells her it’s called gas, more to shut her up than to comfort her. Jessica, the voice of reason, firmly states, “Who cares!? Let’s just watch Made.”
From somewhere, the voice of the director calls for me to offer closure and I close my eyes, and slowly begin to believe....
I realize I’m slowly becoming the ghost of a person I never quite was and finish my diet coke. There's nothing new this afternoon; my life buckles and bends, splinters crack and grow with time, and I've never felt happier.
9 comments:
" Ephemeral happiness flashes as I catch a reflection of myself in the windows and realize my hair has never looked better."
thats really funny.
Yeah...this blog has taken a turn for the worst and by worst i mean best.
So surreal,
I love believing in the ghost of the person I never quite was. Could it be that you are growing as a person? Naturally you will be more mature now, and by more, of course, I mean less. :>
Of course I believe in ghosts. Growing as a person? Oh well, who really knows... Not me anyways. All I know is that my life is lots of fun. That's enough for now. And by enough I mean not much.
your drinking diet coke?and cheese comng from a can. you know you might get fat from that kinda stuff!:) ellis is a geniuse..that it if i could spell geniouse!! p.s. the gothic princess attacked me beofr our test today, apparently she saw DREW and forgot to punch him in the face.. whatever means.hope your day is lovely...netflixs has just arrived! *Sarah*
Michael, I'm very upset with your hair in that picture.
Not your best work...
However, the guns look fantastic.
Michael, you and I need to have a long, deep talk. Methinks we're in similar boats, if not the same one.
We WANT An AUDIO BLOG!!!!!!!!!!!
I am so jealous of your netflix. You are one lucky girl! And yeah, Easton is a genius in regards to capturing an era in all of its superficialities and absurdities. Drew and Eva are bad news--stay at least 100 feet away at all times.
Michael
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