I am...a New Yorker

[Previous entry: "A Coed"]

Tuesday, January 28, 2003

Someone farted on the M14 this morning.

Something good.

Tired, but for good reasons.

On the run before class.

From Washington Square to 7th Avenue South and Leroy. By the time I got there, my cheeks and hands were burning from the cold, and my ears felt frozen, in spite of my hat, gloves, scarf and full length, wool coat.

Not so much in class last night, I got stuck. I've never learned to write creatively. Journalism is about researching and interviewing and memoir comes all from within. I am not sure how to simply make shit up.

"Dock of the Bay," which I used to sing while walking the streets of SF late at night. It was also the song that was playing the first time I walked into a strip club; the girl looked bored out of her mind.

I am...about at my capacity for stuff to do. I don't want to say I'm overwhelmed, because that's a bit of a stretch. I am near to my limit, like that point where you leave the dinner table lest you eat one morsel to many and be uncomfortably full.

The classes are interesting thus far, though I've only been to the writing class twice. I had mixed feelings when I learned my Saturday afternoon literature course was cancelled on Friday. On the one hand, it's a relief not to have to figure out how I'm going to read those 14 books before May. On the other, I very much looked forward to reading, analyzing and discussing the classics. I tested out of 2 years of English in high school and college.

I have been blessed with a certain natural ability, but there are these gaps in my education. I particularly notice this in the many books I should have read, but haven't and in some lapsed areas of grammar. Last week, K and I went out for coffee and then had an early dinner. He corrected me because I said "who" instead of "whom." Those are the kinds of rules that I just don't know.

Last week, my advisor called me up all excited to tell me the results of my writing placement exam. We were to respond to one of two questions, based on a short paragraph. The essays were to be read by two faculty members, who would then decide where each student should be placed, in Writing Workshop I or II, II being higher.

The recommendation for me was to take neither, but take an exemption test for Writing II. Apparently, large as NYU is, this happens perhaps 3 times a year. It's just good to know that I still have a solid foundation of writing to build from. If I pass the test, I could save $3000 on tuition, although another writing class can't hurt. I'm not sure there will be enough money to attend NYU for another 4 or 5 semesters, but it certainly makes sense to save money and time wherever possible. I also want to keep my options open, for a change.

The only glitch so far has been getting the books. I feel like I'm living off the gubment cheese, waiting for my financial aid to come in so I can buy my books. This brings back memories.

: : :

I've been all work and very little play of late, shredding through red tape left and right to get back to school. It's obviously more than worth it, but now I can relax, just a wee bit.

Last night I went to Michelle's birthday party, which was a complete blast. I've been needing to go out and have a little drinky or two or three and unwind. Michelle's girlfriend took care of me all night. I almost left early, because I have my long class tonight and didn't sleep much all weekend.

I am, so glad I didn't, because it was crazy. If you ever have a chance to attend a party with a bunch of clowns (no mimes in Palookaville), I highly recommended it. At last count, Michelle got pied 22 times.

I got her twice. I was reluctant at first, being so tired and crabby, but one of her friends slipped me a tissue filled with cream. The moment was right because Michelle had thought a few minutes before that I was going to do it, because my hand was behind my back. So her guard was down. I smashed it into her face, left the tissue there for effect, then peeled it off.

The second was a re-pieing, shoving her hand so the pie she'd just peeled off her face went right back on. There were sneaky pies, hugs good-pie, licking pie off her face. I've never seen anything like it. She kept screaming, "You're a bunch of FUCKING clowns!"

Oh, and her friend Jazzy serenaded me with "Hero" during the karaoke interlude. Michelle sang "I Want Your Sex." She tried to get me to sing, but so far only Pamie has been able to get me to sing in public and I had to sing the Danny Zuko part in "Summer Nights."

James wants to go celebrate my return to academentia at some point soon. After that, I will be so insanely, obscenely busy, there won't be time for partying until May.

[Next entry: "Over It"]
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