I leave for work in t minus fifty minutes, and by god I just might get in an accident on the way there. Lookout cars, I am hyped up on way too many cups of extremely strong coffee on this most beautiful early spring morning that the gods have graced us with. The life force has returned and I was up bright and early this morning with a pretty little boner at a few minutes before nine, needing no assistance from such silly contraptions as alarm clocks. I was up on my own for the third day in a row, bright and goddamn mothefucking early. My body has joined the sleeping schedule of what I assume most peoples' bodies are in. Most good working peoples of the world bodies. I go to bed before midnight against my will. I cannot stay up to save my life and I wake up with the sun. How many gorgeous mornings have I missed during my lazy years at college. How many hazy mornings have passed me by? How many more will I allow to?
NONE!! God damn it! Shout it from the rafters at the top of your fucking lungs, wear those things paper thin until you're hoarse with the joy and the pleasure of life.
And, I thought that I would do a diary entry now before I leave for work since chances are that I will probably wipe out soon after coming home from work, curled in my bed under warm covers, wrapped around the arousing language of a one Mister Henry Miller, who by the way, I think I may be in love with. And so yes, yes, back to the diary - back to the boring documentation of what angela at one point in time (or actually if you had MTV, when they showed the reruns about ten times a day) referred to as: my so-called life.
The day-to-day life follows in what may or may not be a linear fashion. People, I am quite hyper right now, don't get too demanding and ask for coherency, otherwise I'm pulling the plug and getting ready for work, which by the way I have to do very shortly. These past few days have been of the good variety - of the fucking life is the most wonderful thing on earth and goddamn I'm going to die one day variety.
Maggie is working at Yes now. Which is the most wonderful and also the most hilirious thing in my life right now. How wild is that that we are both working at this tiny organic market not near either of our houses, far off in SE DC, in that most beautiful neighborhood of Eastern Market. She is a gorgeous soul, the carefree Maggie Ray who would dance at walls til kingdom come. We did no work when we worked together on Friday. We danced across the aisles to the easy listening songs we knew. Maggie, a little too carefree for my I got to get paid sensibilities. Singing while she's ringing up customers and getting down, jamming out to occasional stares. And maybe she can purify me. Make me more carefree - less inhibited by what I fear people might think. And I work with her again today and I am so excited. Someone must have told on us though because on Saturday morning I got reprimanded by John for "fooling around" with my "girlfriend". No, shes not, John. Okay well, "whatever she is," he said, stop fooling around. And ha!, Maggie is a girl and she gave me hugs and I'm a boy so obviously she is my girlfriend, you stupid terd. At least, there are still a couple people in this world who can not automatically tell that I am gay. That makes me happy. But, he's sort of a dumb guy anyways.
Yesterday, I saw two insanely gorgeous would-be photographs. As I was getting off the metro and crossing the street to Yes, a bright New Orleans type procession with bright umbrellas on a sunny day and priests in robes and parishoners with palms passed me in I guess a Palm Sunday procession. And it was a wild sight. And there were too many movie street scenes. Easten Market vendors with colorful fruit and veggies. A homeless man sat outside of Yes with three bright yellow daffodils in his hand offering them for sale. The colors. The colors. The stark contrast. It could not have been a more perfect picture had it been staged.
Blade 2 with Rebecca before she left for Harper's Ferry to be a farmer. The movie was silly and good and I fell asleep half way through. I told you I have a hard time staying up past midnight.
Too many boys/men in short umbros and adidas sandals coming into Yes yesterday giving me little boners. And okay, I am stereotypical gay boy, and think soccer players are so fucking hot.
Sujatha loves them goals, and said I need to have them, and was apalled when I said I was a lit. major just because, and no, I have no clue what I plan on doing with that. Don't you want to be successful, she asked. Is that what Led Zepplin meant in their "Immigrant Song"? God, that was un p.c. of me, but whatever, Sujatha fills all the cultural sterotypes I possess about Indians. She said "success" so weird and emphatically, tying my monetary accumualtion to "success"- in a way that scared me.
There's a Whitman College in Washington State, and no, it is not named after Walt, he told me after I excitedly accosted him about his sweatshirt.
And last night, there was an ad in the metro that said, "WHAT DO THE BEST MINDS IN MEDICAL RESEARCH NEED?
To particpate in Studies at the National Institute of Health, call:
And THE BEST MINDS brought up thoughts of Ginsberg, and of the best minds of his generation destroyed by things, and other lines I still don't fully understand, but maybe come closer to with each ad for research subjects I see. And, unfortunatly I could not help the best minds of my generation (not Ginsberg's) because I did not have any of the diseases or conditions that they were researching.