In Which Reality Sets In And I Shit Myself.

I'll get to the goods in a moment, but first the business of the day.

Latin is fucking my shit up. I'm studying maybe 3-4 hours a DAY, and it just isn't flowing. I've got a test on Wednesday and my Underoos are brown with proof. It seems that each week I have to pick a class to neglect in order to get all my shit done. There isn't any balance at the moment, and it's depressing as hell. But on the bright side, I have my Rhetoric and Comp. class three times a week to cheer me up.

Today, Octavia (aka Hot English Teacher) gave back my first draft for my paper on ANWR, which was little more than freewriting. Nothing close to the 4-5 pages she requested, but it was better than nothing. Ya know? It was about 7:30 in the morning. I always get to school around 7am on MWF because my day is so short that I like to get a head start. It makes me feel productive. We were sitting on the cement benches outside the library and it was pissing down rain just a few feet behind us. I gave her the draft I worked on this weekend. She tucked it into a foulder and said she would get to it later. She stood up as if to go, then sat back down and said, "Ya know, I think I'll read it now." I went back to reading the Harlan Ellison that Jesse so kindly lent me. I guess she was half way through the 3rd page when she turned to me and said, "You know, I really like reading your papers. They're easily the best I get and great for breaking the monotony." It was quite possibly the nicest thing anyone has ever said to me.

On the last page of the draft she handed back was written, "Charles, you're a confident writer and thinker and you show it in all of your work." I find it odd, because if it is anything I am not confident in, it's writing. Thinking is no problem. I do it all the time. Writing, boy...I don't know. (That's when Bartlet decided to kick my ass, by the way.) I have ideas, but they always come out wrong when I write. Something strange happens between the formation of a thought, that thought passing to the blind man on quality control of the conveyer belt of shit running through my head, to what shows up on the page. I think it. I write it. I come back to it. I hate it. Jesse and I were talking about it the other day. There is something up with the way I view structure. Maybe that's why Latin's so hard for me. I know it's a part of my dyslexia...but if you ask me, it's a bullshit, cop-out, of an excuse. I've never had trouble before, so I don't understand why it would suddenly be cropping up now. Or maybe I'm just realizing it now... I want to write well, and I want to do it all the damn time...

Bah. I'll quit boring you with my masturbatory introspections and will cut to the good stuff.

I swear to the Flying Spaghetti Monster that someone is fucking with me. Or maybe it's the Spaghetti Monster, Himself, who's doing the fucking. Anyway, I feel like I've been hit over the head with a mallet. I'm serious. I'm delirious; in a daze. Her name is Jen and we met under some pretty bizarre circumstances...but not bizarre enough to bother leaving here. But the story in brief goes like this:

-Met 2 weeks ago for the fist time, but wasn't really paying attention.
-Met Friday at a part and spent a lot of time talking, flirting, and making me feel generally uncomfortable. I was too stupid to get her number.
-Called my friend Samantha (her former roommate) to get her number. Called Jen that night. Talked for half an hour.
-She called me Sunday, spoke briefly...went back to watching West Wing with Rhys.

Tonight, after Fiddy-Cent Tacos with Jesse, I went to Stone Cup (her job), had a latte and studied for about 5 hours. She would come over and chat for a bit then have to run off and do the whole job thing. It's really weird. We hardly know eachother, but it's like we've been friend for a really long time. It literally feels like I'm talking to a Ridge Monkey. And I've gota say...Wow! Not hard on the eyes at all.

Any of you curious types wana meet her, we'll be hitting up the show on Friday night.

Pray I don't screw this up.