Classes started again this morning.
I left the house at 6:15 a.m. Which is a time that no one should be driving, or indeed doing anything other than hitting the snooze button or perhaps even showering MAYBE if you have something really important like the Academy Awards nominations to get up for.
I spent twenty minutes trying to not throw heavy things at the back of the old auditing guy WHO WOULDN’T SHUT THE HELL UP, and, if his face and clenched jaw was any indication, the professor was fighting the same urge.
This is so mean. But I really hope the class is too full for him to get in.
Then I spent two hours sitting in the Grind drinking a latte and wondering what kind of 15-year-old comes up with Gothic smut, which we’ll get to in a moment?
Then I listened to Summertime (the “and the living is easy” suckage) THREE TIMES, first by Porgy and Bess, then by Miles Davis, and then by Janis Joplin while an aging hippie with a crazy-ass beard talked about tone color and the guy in front of me unabashedly listened t his iPod the ENTIRE lecture.
Then I went to Earth Wind and Fire, where I found out that a.) it is possible to receive a Ph.D. from Princeton without actually knowing how to speak English clearly, b.) obviously the professor does not know that the first day is totally reserved for going over the syllabus and getting together with friends, idiot, and c.) people have got to stop having so much sex, because damn, the Earth cannot sustain them.
Then I came home and rummaged through old handbags looking for a change purse but found a dime and a half-punched Cold Stone Creamery card. Sweet.
And my daddy was kind enough to drive me, so that I did not end up shored up in a snowdrift. Which was very nice of him.
And so help me God if Johnny is nominated and there’s no awards show because neither the writers or the producers will put on their big girl panties and DEAL WITH IT then that old auditing guy earlier? Had it easy.
While I was sitting in the Grind for hours and hours and hours this morning, I read The Monk, because it was in Northanger Abbey the other night, and my dad gave me his copy like five years ago to read and I haven’t yet, and oh my goodness the scandal!!!
Then I found out it was written when the author was fifteen. FIFTEEN. My little brother’s age. I don’t really remember fifteen, it was a busy year what with the leaving high school and starting college and OMG PIRATES and the Crazy living with us and occasionally breaking down about the state of her union.
But I’m pretty sure I never thought, damn, I really need to write a tome about sex with a priest in which *spoilers* the woman is revealed to be the devil at the end, which is just not fair. (Not to advocate any vow breakage or anything, but her bosom wasn’t the only one heaving, is all I’m saying.)
That was one fifteen-year-old with a hell of an imagination.
And also? I’m pretty sure they couldn’t fit the word “bosom” in there once more. They’d reach their bosom limit. He may have had an imagination, but notsomuch with the vocabulary.