But guess who is in my Major American Writers class next term, the class I was looking forward to quite a bit, despite my tendency to shy away from exclusively “American” topics in literature? The Thorn’s very own George Dawkins. In fact, there are too many people in that class I know. And some of them are actually somewhat literary-minded, which means my ideas (such as they are) will sound even more like shit, which means I can plan on being quiet and simply absorbing for probably most of the quarter. It’s twelfth grade English all over again. There will be those three or four people who bunt around ideas while the rest of us sit in silence and nod at convenient times, because to speak up is to invite ridicule or derision or complaints about the low level of the class discussion.
Le sigh (isn’t butchering French fun?). I suppose I should reserve judgement until I’m actually in the class, huh? As long as I can get a front row seat, I’m good.
[Listening to “Cowgirl” [Underworld / Hackers]]
It crossed my mind briefly to write about my ridiculously fun evening last night with The Crazy CO Girls (and Guys), but then I realized that, out of context, it probably wouldn’t be funny. How can one portray the hilarity of random porn music outbursts during Interview with a Vampire (more appropriate in the book, given Rice’s writing style than in the toned-down movie), and the outbursts of “Armand is supposed to look like a little boy! Ahn-tonio doesn’t look like a little boy!” and “Shouldn’t that be some sort of ancient Italian accent instead of a Spanish one?” and “Anne Rice also writes S & M erotica.” … “Have you read them, Greg? How do you know it’s S & M?” Or the all-out bashing of Hackers, a movie that was so much cooler many years ago, but still holds a certain charm. (I just want to say, for the last time, that I hate Johnny Lee Miller’s voice!). When a bunch of Computer Science and Computer Engineering (CO) majors get together (for anything), I can only advise that the building be evacuated of all other inhabitants.
[Listening to “Communicate [Headquake Hazy Cloud Mix]” [Plastico / Hackers]
They just turned on the heat. Hell, yeah.
(A pointless post, I know.)
[Listening to “Cowgirl” [Underworld / Hackers]
Fall just got up and left my ass sometime last week or the week before. By “fall”, I mean autumn. Cool mornings, windy days, leaves falling. Wonderful temperatures for walks.
All the trees outside my dorm window are ass-bare (and the curtains are most definitely closed when dressing now… not that we were flagrant with nudity when there were leaves, but, you know), and I hate to get up in the mornings because it. Is. Cold. Folks from Indiana, Kentucky, Ohio, etc., are laughing at me, because it’s not even winter yet (according to them), and I’m already dressing in layers. Fuck “it’s not winter yet”. When the high for the day is 50 degrees Fahrenheit, it’s winter, folks. Fourteen years of Texas has taught me this. And they haven’t even cut on the heat in my dorm building yet, so I’m all up under my two blankets at night in my flannel pajamas and boot-socks. But then, I’m one to wear flannel pajamas (sans the socks) in the summer, so that may not be the best indicator of the temperature.
I just feel like hibernating. Make a Mug (my 24 oz mug is known as the Mug) of hot tea, curl up with Anne Rice’s or David Weber’s books, and wait this whole snow and biting cold and ice and wind chill factor thing out.
[Listening to: By_Myslf – Josh Abraham – Reanimation (03:42)]
This took place yesterday afternoon, as I struggled to get the tangles out of my wet hair.
Andrea: [Walking down the hall, just getting back from class. She sees me and halts.] Ooh.
Me: [Struggling with the comb, arms tired as hell, and I’m only halfway done.] I know, right? Sometimes, very briefly, I want to cut it off.
Andrea: No. I’m jealous. Now I want to do your hair. Let me do your hair.
Me: [Instant panic] Hell, no! You are not burning my hair. Begone, with your evil ideas.
Andrea: I don’t burn hair. I just want to straighten it.
Me: Oh, and that’s accomplished by running a cold curling iron along hair, now? Right. You ain’t burnin’ my hair.
Andrea: It’s not–Look, you’ve seen S.’s hair. You’ve seen my hair. It’s not burnt.
Me: It is too burnt. And what am I going to do with it? You burn it, straighten it, and if it doesn’t fall out, I will just put it back in my customary ponytail and plait it. Then it’ll be all wispy and shit, which is harder to deal with than wavy when it’s this thick. You ain’t burnin’ my hair.
Andrea: [Laughing] But then you can wear it down. And it won’t fall out.
Me: I don’t like hair in my face or on my neck. You ain’t burning my hair.
Me: Nope. Go away. I have to finish.
She made funny faces at me for the rest of the day. “I’m jealous” was all I heard from her. All I could think, other than “stay away from my hair”, was that it’s probably a good thing she never met my mother. One, she’d be coveting her hair, and two, my mother would probably support the burning endeavors and would rope me into a chair to let Andrea do her work.