Tonight I had my first day of class; a creative writing one, at that. Is it bad that I thought it funny when the kid sitting next to me asked if paraphrasing is plagiarism?
The teacher's in the room, sitting at his desk and I want to ask him if he's a writer but feel weird doing it. The last of the students leave, and I'm about to make a move up there for chit-chat and interrogation when two girls come in in a flurry of I am SO sorry! and blonde hair. I think the better of standing there, then, and leave the room with my coffee that's turned cold and is so sweet it makes my teeth hurt a little.
I walk the long way, avoiding the 33rd Street station and take the stroll passed the court house and obtrusive green Citibank building, to the 45th Road one.
I like it when I'm about to get off at my stop and say to myself and whomever controls the universe, "I hope the bus is there when I get outside" and it is.
There is a guy who makes eye-contact with me as I wait to board the bus; he motions for me to cut him in line and I acknowledge this with a nod and inaudible, mouthed "thank you." There are many men who would just as soon punch you in the face or tell you to fuck off, so if one is inclined to hold open a door for me or let me skip ahead of him in a line, I will not become femilitant and poo-poo these gestures.
Guy is wearing a dark gray suit, black shirt, shoes and socks, and multi-colored necktie which to turn away from would be like turning away from car accidents on highways. Slick hair; he wears that suit like a coat rack would and has boney shoulders. You can kind of imagine, without difficulty, what he'd look like naked. He went from his original seat at the front of the bus to one in the back, across from me, and sort of watches as I write this down. Skinny Guy makes me feel guilty because I'm writing about him, and even though I clutch my notebook to my chest and scribble what I worry will be illegible by the time I get home, I still feel bad.
I don't feel bad enough, however, to actually put down the pencil, but I did manage to almost miss my stop.
When I get off I pass the congregation of local teenagers in big clothing yelling at each other from this street corner to that. Fuck you! where's my ten dollars?
The two-block walk from bus-stop to front door smells like wet dirt and construction.
Once inside, you literally peel the clothing off of you because of how humid it was outside and how sweaty you got. It's that kind of weather where I go from my room (air conditioned) down to kitchen (not air conditioned) and my glasses fog up. Subsequently, I banged my hip against the side of the stove in a hurry to get to the cookies that lie on the table (even though they aren't going anywhere, pig), and that may or may not have been due to lack of visibility.
The teacher's in the room, sitting at his desk and I want to ask him if he's a writer but feel weird doing it. The last of the students leave, and I'm about to make a move up there for chit-chat and interrogation when two girls come in in a flurry of I am SO sorry! and blonde hair. I think the better of standing there, then, and leave the room with my coffee that's turned cold and is so sweet it makes my teeth hurt a little.
I walk the long way, avoiding the 33rd Street station and take the stroll passed the court house and obtrusive green Citibank building, to the 45th Road one.
I like it when I'm about to get off at my stop and say to myself and whomever controls the universe, "I hope the bus is there when I get outside" and it is.
There is a guy who makes eye-contact with me as I wait to board the bus; he motions for me to cut him in line and I acknowledge this with a nod and inaudible, mouthed "thank you." There are many men who would just as soon punch you in the face or tell you to fuck off, so if one is inclined to hold open a door for me or let me skip ahead of him in a line, I will not become femilitant and poo-poo these gestures.
Guy is wearing a dark gray suit, black shirt, shoes and socks, and multi-colored necktie which to turn away from would be like turning away from car accidents on highways. Slick hair; he wears that suit like a coat rack would and has boney shoulders. You can kind of imagine, without difficulty, what he'd look like naked. He went from his original seat at the front of the bus to one in the back, across from me, and sort of watches as I write this down. Skinny Guy makes me feel guilty because I'm writing about him, and even though I clutch my notebook to my chest and scribble what I worry will be illegible by the time I get home, I still feel bad.
I don't feel bad enough, however, to actually put down the pencil, but I did manage to almost miss my stop.
When I get off I pass the congregation of local teenagers in big clothing yelling at each other from this street corner to that. Fuck you! where's my ten dollars?
The two-block walk from bus-stop to front door smells like wet dirt and construction.
Once inside, you literally peel the clothing off of you because of how humid it was outside and how sweaty you got. It's that kind of weather where I go from my room (air conditioned) down to kitchen (not air conditioned) and my glasses fog up. Subsequently, I banged my hip against the side of the stove in a hurry to get to the cookies that lie on the table (even though they aren't going anywhere, pig), and that may or may not have been due to lack of visibility.
VIEW 20 of 20 COMMENTS
dem_z:
Wait, what the hell, it's 5:00 am there? are you up early, or haven't you gone to bed yet? 
dem_z:
Is the sun up there yet? It's 10 in the morning here. A nice, sunny, day. I'll be going out later to do a bit of grocery shopping. I need to buy bananas; they have lots of zinc which will be good for my ear. I think.
I think.