i’ve been irritated for 2 whole days. i don’t know when it started exactly but i’m going to guess it began on thursday morning when i woke up, like i always do, an hour before my alarm went off. why self? why can’t you just sleep until the alarm goes off like a normal person? there is no rational explanation for this behavior.
anyway, so i woke up and sat around for awhile and ended up leaving a little later than i wanted to, as usual, but at least i made myself lunch. i walked to the bart, as usual, finding the look of strangers just to be a little much at 9:15 am. then of course i ended up waiting too long for the muni at balboa park. annoying. usual. i’d already listened to all of my favorite podcasts for the week (le show, this american life, savage love) or maybe i hadn’t listened to le show yet but i just wasn’t ready for it so i listened to some music. it occurred to me that even though i have 7.5 DAYS worth of music on my ipod, it’s all freaking boring. anyway, that’s how it goes. i go to work. get the mail, get the key, return the key, you know, obnoxious. read everything i can think to read on the internet. make some notes for a presentation later in the afternoon, which i am basically completely unprepared for. realize that there is no way to GET prepare in the intervening 4 hours because that would involve going back to kindergarten and teaching myself to care. and then going to the library and acting on that knowledge. give up instead. fix my prospective syllabus so i can apply to teach introduction to creative writing next semester. talk back to my teacher’s comments on that syllabus, telling her that YES it is purposeful that i don’t give any requirements other than turn things in on time because this is f-ing intro and the point is to write not to be a great writer. run down stairs. turn in syllabus to hiring committee (which includes a teacher whose modern art coffee table i recently desecrated with my feet, likely cutting me out of the race for teacher who make $400 a semester). spend an unbearable 3 minutes with the books store lady who is dropping off books for that night’s reading. work continues along its predictable path of nothingness. go to class. give presentation on tess gallagher, beginning with a real graduate level english statement like: “tess gallagher is basically like yoko ono but worse” and concluding with another academic diamond: “i guess i just don’t like poetry that much.” a girl in my class points out that i work for the poetry center. i nod, defeated.
exit classroom. spend some time outside talking nonsense to a friendly girl in my class. but still, it’s nonsense. a man walks up to us, a man this girl knows, and begins telling us that the real issue with the virginia shooter was, well, he was korean. explains that he knows this because he once dated a korean woman. i get a sense that this man is south african. my sense is confirmed. [note here, just because i want the blame to be evenly spread, he was a BLACK south african.] we start talking about how majorly f-ed south africa is. talk about the people i knew who were so scared all the time. he agrees, loudly and happily. decries the violence. then tells us about how is brother has an “a k” and has been involved with some robberies himself. the whole thing becomes too much to handle. i find the campus subway and eat a completely disgusting dinner.
after dinner i return to the poetry center to get a ride to thursday night’s poetry reading at the unitarian center. go to the unitarian center. [i too am unsure why i am writing like this but just go with it.] the unitarian center is very cold. the poets for the evening have a following of attractive boy poetry groupies. the groupies refuse to look at me because this is san francisco, the town where i have inadvertently started using boy-invisibility soap. not even any looks of horror. not even a moment of eye contact when they hand me their money. who are these people? i’ll tell you. boys in san francisco.
the poetry reading turns into 2 and a half of the most boring hours of my life. i give up imagining true love with the groupies and move on to the poets. i imagine our divorces. i start wondering how i missed the unit in elementary school on “how to handle the inevitable fact that you will spend a good portion of your life doing stuff you absolutely hate doing”.
remember why it’s better not to talk to people: some of them actually believe in haunted houses.
i get home and am forced to sit through the taped edition of ugly betty and grey’s anatomy. at one point i say “if george walks back in that room, i am never watching grey’s anatomy again.” george walks back in and i stay seated, proving definitively that i stand for nothing. the final moments of the show are cut off. i believe this is a sign of good things to come. ie i get to go to sleep now.
anyway. that was thursday. just writing about it is obnoxious. so here’s the quick version of what happened next: i spent today wanting to throw a screaming tantrum any time another human being looked at me and also any time i saw my reflection in a window. BUT THEN (look this is the happy ending) i made it home. i shut my door. i started cutting paper for my book project. i listened to archived episodes of this american life. now, other than reliving that whole thing by writing about it, i am feeling much better. i’m not planning on leaving my room until i can be sure i will be only be looking at people who a) agrees with me on everything and b) i like. i’m not sure this is going to happen. now i have to go. i have more paper to cut.