seethingblue's Diaryland Diary ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- aargh. The elevators take turns having maintenance done. The blue-jumpsuits post a piece of tackboard letting you know which floors are inaccessible, and they are always the floors you need to get to. And so you hike up the winding staircase, much like a loft apartment, the vertical stretch of windows overlooking four brickwalls and a small snack stand and tiny Lego people perched on ledges, reading and reading and reading, their tiny ant bodies become smaller and less-defined as you ascend the tower, and the door snaps open on it's springs. You hate the assortment of magazines they stock-- literary journals that make you feel inadequate and stupid and worthless and checklists of classes you must take and self-made ads for half-empty apartments looking for someone clean and nice and open-minded about large dogs and parakeets. You take a piece of the fringed bottom, the 675-9321 to spit your gum in, and worry about your education, your life: will you be a writer, will you ever be good enough, or respected, or published???????? but you can't answer those questions today, let alone solve the mystery of unhappiness and utter discontent, you must be told that you have forgotten a humanities credit, and are very close to running out of scholarship money, and have lost the seventy cents you were going to use to buy a Sprite. 18:17 - 31 January, 2003 ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- |
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