September 25, 1998.

As I was going to bed last night, I realized that the diary had completely slipped my mind. Thursdays are kind of a busy day for me, and by the end of my classes at 8:30 (sorry Poet, sorry Preacher), I was thoroughly depressed...too depressed to let my mind remain on. So I put up the "back in 5 minutes" sign that cheap households use on Hallowe'en...and when I turned on the lights again, put the candlesticks/cervesa bottles back where they belong, & cleaned up all the clothes from the floor, it was Friday. Romanticism class was already over. I'd dispatched Veronica after Sloan tickets & bought a text of 16th century English Verse & read an article about John Waters' new movie.

Welcome to now, Aleta.

Hiiiii.

I should prolly state for the record here that I'm currently surfing on the big-head feeling that announces a cold. So I don't feel too lucid. But at least I'll just write clumsily, and not offensively.

Was supposed to meet Poet for coffee/dessert on Wednesday. His sister needed his help, however, and we moved it too last night...the night Trevor traditionally comes to visit. I know from past experience that Poet will not speak in groups of more than 2, but I have no intention of ditching my boy during the brief time we have together. My daughter? My ducats? Cut the Gordian knot in 2 by asking Palaver along to balance the energy. Then my professor talked for a half-hour longer than scheduled...and ended the lecture with the blood-curdling phrase, "I look forward to your essays next week." Ulp. He decided to be cryptic & utterly assoholic when I attempted to draw him out about the assignment (I remembered nothing from the outline). I was nearly in tears by the time I found Trevor.

And then there was no Poet waiting. But who would've expected to wait an extra 40 minutes? Besides, I was too depressed to eat dessert & rebuild a friendship. Later I found out that he'd come by twice (with Preacher, no less), at 8 and at 9. Great. I don't know whether to feel contrite for my prof or what.

And then there was a message from Stacy waiting at home, inviting me to an industry shmoozefest. Tired, depressed me. I could hear the glitter promised. But alas, I couldn't pay glamour's price last night.

I believe the technical term is "d'oh."

Last night I convinced Trevor that Tori Amo's album "Under the Pink" is a great album. It is, but he was prolly just responding to the endorphins. Biological warfare between the genders...I'm at least an officer by now.

one year ago today: wall of dildos