Just Another Thursday...


Amazingly enough, the bus driver took her 5 minute break at my stop, which gave me just the opportunity to chase frantically after the bus banging on the door. I was able to catch a ride to school on time.

The whole reason I was late--in addition to just being late in general-- was because I cashed a check at Publix, which is becoming more of a bank to me than the bank that actually gives me my checks and monthly statements. This is sad, I know. I never take out enough money at a time--I seem to think keeping it in a vault in the bank will prevent me from spending it.

That bus driver is cool, though. I like her because she tries to read the newspaper everytime she stops at a red light.

So it's just another Thursday at the University of Florida. I am in lab learning about Photoshop 7.0 and nothing on my computer is working properly. I keep thinking that there are just four more weeks of this semester, which makes me momentarily happy until I realize that this only means I will soon be facing a hellish innundation of end-of-the-semester projects, a short break, and then a whole new schedule of the same old sh*&.

I can't...seem...to get to work. There is so much else I'd rather be doing. Like playing with Issac (I miss him so much--he's growing and changing so fast), laying in the sun or swimming in the springs or even watering my garden. Writing, drawing a picture, going on a walk. Talking to a friend. Curling up on the couch with my cat and listening to Paul Simon. Taking a nap. Will I ever grow up and force myself to do the things that must be done? I operate better in the middle of the night when there is nothing chirping outside calling my attention away. But even then there are cheesey infomercials on tv and books to read and a couch to curl on and sleep to be had.

Sometimes I think that if I'm ever going to get through school I need to be locked up in a white room with nothing but a list of assignments and a pencil. And electric shocks that stop me from doodling, which I would still be doing even if I was getting shocked.

Okay, I'm scaring myself. I don't really need that. I just need a kick in the butt. I feel like an old junker car that is just barely chugging along, not getting a good spark, about to heave and sigh and then just completely give up. Those cars always amaze me--they keep on going and going and going like that forever.

Maybe I just need a good lube. I think I'm going to go crazy. You married friends can't possibly understand the concept of sexual frustration. I know it will soon pass, but it still makes me feel sorry for myself.

Anyways, I have major writer's block (probably due to mild depression from my severe sexual frustration). Expect some short fiction in the near future. My short fiction is always ugly and crude, but it's what I resort to when I can't write anything else.

Chiao.