Well I ended up reading a little more than half of those books. Wooooo, whatever, I’ll get to the rest eventually.
A more pressing matter at hand is that I think I’m transferring.
YOU HEARD IT HERE FIRST, FOLKS, I am possibly high-tailing it out of this godforsaken school in search of greener pastures. All negative eleven of you who read this are the only people I’ve really told so far. I don’t want to start burning bridges with my West Chester crew until plans have fully solidified, but I’m pretty sure that (fingers crossed), before TOO long I’ll be outta here. And by “West Chester crew” I mean like, the sixish friends I have here who are quite nice and fine, but who I pretend to like a lot more than I truly do. Harsh I guess. Whatever. I’m really just not happy here, and little by little I feel as though I am losing myself and compromising my character and *pretending to like* a lot of things that I don’t give a shit about, and pretending NOT to care for or believe in some of the deepest convictions of my heart. And there’s also the more general fact that, across the board, I am not enjoying myself or feeling fulfilled in any area. So….that’s all pretty terrible. I know where I’m transferring, if I do in fact transfer, but I shan’t disclose at present.
I found a five dollar bill today outside of the office where I work.
In other news, I’m currently taking a poetry class. The good news about that is that I will hopefully improve my mediocre skillz as a poet. The bad news about it is that I wrote a poem, and I’m about to copy and paste it on here. The assignment for this poem was “write a poem from the point of view of someone or something other than yourself.” Not the most exciting prompt but whatevz.
Home
I couldn’t say quite when I knew
That West Apartment Twenty-Two
Would be the place I’d hang my hat,
Perhaps it was the attic bat.
It might’ve been the kitchen sink
That served me my first muddy drink.
Or Maribelle in Twenty-Four
Who hung a “Welcome!” on my door.
I cannot tell you why I stayed,
It can’t have been the window shade
That flew up, bludgeoning my nose,
Perhaps the holey garden hose?
It can’t have been the creaky stairs,
The drafty drafts and chilly airs,
But perhaps that lusty rise and fall—-
Maribelle’s singing through the wall.
I doubt it was that smell of cats,
But it might’ve been the rooftop chats,
Maribelle’s curls tousled by the breeze,
Her lace-trimmed hanky when I sneezed.
I’m quite allergic to the mold,
The icy drafts give me a cold,
But there’s a kindly “Do Get Well!”—-
A homemade card from Maribelle.
There’s lots of fixing up to do
In West Apartment Twenty-Two.
A shambles right from roof to floor—
But at least I’ve got the girl nextdoor.
J. Coppa © 2010
