What a week…I don’t know if I even want to talk about it. I am not a poet. It’s official, I’m giving up pretending to be one. Not that I really was, that is, considering myself a poet. The class just makes it that much clearer. So we come full circle: I’m taking the senior poetry class not because I’m a poet, as I said in the beginning, but because the *exercise* of writing poetry strengthens everything else. Random girl left her phone number for me almost two weeks ago now. After avoiding it for a week, I called early this week, finally got ahold of someone not a voice service. Somehow or other, I got the girl I was trying to get ahold of’s number. More voicemail. All I’ve gotten is voicemail with the number that’s supposedly hers, so I’m not going to bother any more. I felt so confident Monday. I feel like shit on Friday night. I’m tired of being alone. If anyone’s read my comments on “mezzanine” I don’t have that friend to talk to anymore, so… I dunno. I don’t really care anymore. Once again, it is me, and just me. Today’s Dad’s birthday. Happy 55th dad, you’re now officially old. I can understand wanting the euphoria that comes from drugs, but if I’m going to be depressed and feel terrible, I’d just as soon know it was *me* that was depressed, and not whatever’s in my system killing my brain and stir-frying my liver. You’re a fool if you think you’re here only to do what makes you feel good. So I have a speech on tues. I’m doing it over Hemingway’s use of intentional ambiguity in his dialogue. Ya, I know sounds all heady and complicated. I like Hemingway. So I got back from the library, with the hidden hope of finding the library girl there, damn, anyway, got back after digging for the three sources I need for my speech. I’ve always been drawn to certain writers/bands/artists’ works and never know why. Well, sometimes I find a critical analysis that explains what it is that I really do enjoy so much about who/whatever. …so I found one, ya. Meh, I’m done.