February 2005 Archives
Right now I'm sitting at the reference desk, not even two hours through a four-hour night shift. So I figure I'll write an entry for this thing. It'll kill some time, perhaps.
Earlier, I went into the public bathroom on the 1st floor, not wanting to waste my energy going to the locked staff bathroom downstairs. (Incidentally, I can never bring myself to call it a "restroom." Isn't "bathroom" euphemism enough?)
Not that the staff bathroom is an executive washroom with golden fixtures, but the public ones tend to be a little more lived in, shall we say. I walked in, and the fluorescent lights were flickering. I had a major flashback.
It's a little weird to work in the same place I went to college, let alone the same place in which I had my campus job.
'Scuse me, had to take a break from writing this to demonstrate my wild incompetence to a student doing her senior project on something I have no idea about. I have a hard enough time doing research for myself; how am I to be expected to do it for anyone else? Jesus God.
Back to the blog. I had a major flashback of working nights as a student. Sitting at the reserve desk with my homework, bored to tears. Bolting out at 10 (or whenever) to join the fun, only to find that my friends are nowhere to be found and/or busy with work themselves. College is supposed to be fun, guys. You're not supposed to do work. Mm.
It's that cold empty feeling I get in this place at night that brings back the student memories. Maybe it's the windows. It's pitch black outside, so the windows have turned into mirrors. This contributes to the cold empty atmosphere, but at least when I'm walking down the stacks I can look to my left and check myself out. I say, "DAY-amn," I say.
Cold and empty describes so much of the college experience. Or my college experience. So how is it that I look back on it all with such nostalgia? Fucking selective memory.
In closing, from National Geographic:
Kinda wish I knew what happened next.
Marry me, Mighty Steel Leg.
1. Hey, I miss my friends. Dave and Anna, if you should by some chance read this: when will you stop being so selfish with your "working on weekends" and "going to grad school" shtick and come visit me finally? Jesus. But, you know, give me some warning first, because my place looks like a bomb hit it.
Same goes for others. You're all so damn selfish.
2. I made a startling discovery recently. I am so... tired... of smart people. I can't stand them. The only ones I can stand are the smart ones that I'm already friends with. Other than these, no. Go away. I hate brains. Stop thinking! Talk about something dumb. I'll admire you so much more.
3. To quote Nina: "You've gotten so boy crazy ever since you became a librarian." And it's true. I told my mother this. Her response: "Everyone knows librarians are nymphos."
4. I can't write anymore. I don't know how. I read back to myself the first page of something I've been writing, and it sounded like a printer manual. The city was almost uninhabitable in August. The heat shimmered and shifted and baked the huts and highway the color of drab. There's no rhythm in that whatsoever. Maybe my mistake was reading it out loud to myself. My voice and my monotone are not nice to listen to. I don't even like to listen to myself. And then I get flak for not talking. Have these people, these people who give me flak, heard my voice?
Anyway, from now on I'll imagine Jeremy Irons reading my stuff out loud. See? Doesn't that instantly make those lines a tad bit better? Just a tad?
If by some grace of God I should ever get my act together, write novels, and get famous for my novels, then I should hope no one asks me to record any books-on-tape. (There's egomania for you, eh?) God no. Ask Jeremy Irons to do it. S.K.F. is unavailable. We don't even know if s/he's a man or a woman! That's so Victorian! Like George Eliot! and Georges Sands! and George Clinton! I'll keep the mystery of my gender safe and employ Jeremy Irons as my official voice. Just as long as I don't have to talk to him. He's a little creepy.
