Woke up at six sharp, leapt out of bed, and then sat there for a few minutes. Just sat. Do not remember thinking, “Hey, I’m really tired,” or, “Why are nightmares always longer and more memorable than sex dreams?” or even, “I like snacks.” Then went to shower. Odd, that little brain-pause. Thought I’d mention it.
Walked briskly, briskly I say, to the subway, which I will continue to call the Muni light rail or whatever you freakass San Franciscans call it, because Muni is not the subway, it is the entire public transportation system in the City, and no one knows what I am saying anyway so blah.
Remembered that I had an extensive conversation the night before with a self-professed “cat from Berkeley” named A.J. on my stoop. He was “on the gin and juice tip” (how I adore how those words slipped from his mouth like nothing at all) and bummed a cigarette from me, then proceeded to ask me about the demise of America. I loved it. Also, v. curious about this gin and juice tip. He mixes his in a glass bottle that had such a generic label, it might as well have been labeled GIN AND JUICE TIP in 24-point Georgia.
(Why has it taken me three minutes to ponder 24-point Georgia? Why?)
Wrote angry prose into my journal on the ferry. Well, not really angry, more like vaguely disgruntled. But that doesn’t sound right at all.
Got to work before opening on the one day – the one day – I have a student assistant competent enough to open by herself.
Smiled as soon as I walked in my office and saw the bouquets of flowers left over from my reading.
Did not smite any students. Notable because several of them really asked for a good smiting, especially the one who told me he didn’t have time to read books and could I just summarize a few journal abstracts for him. V. glad I left flaming sword at home, in umbrella rack.
Pondered my own gin and juice tip, and when this might occur.
Failed to find gin or juice at my deli during my lunch break.
Ate my lunch in my car in a remote parking lot while reading Dream Park.
Made plans with a former co-worker to have tapas, and therefore experience a Spanish wine tip instead, immediately after work. Score.
Avoided any form of smiting. Even managed a few half-hearted smiles amidst stamped-down rage.
Considered a career change. For the 3423068640932582345th time.
Escaped work for tapas and wine tip.
Had a fabulous girly-talk time with former co-worker. Had two glasses of Spanish wine. Had gambas al ajillo, y una empanadita. (No idea what I just said, there. If I insulted your mother, lo siento.) Was ogled at by really unsubtle middle-aged men at the bar. Made sure to say unsexy things like “personal integrity” and “fiscal reparations” while really talking about boys.
Texted the MSG with something so cheesy and wine-induced I will never look at that horrible thing sitting in my “sent” folder. A dirty joke would have been less humiliating than what I sent. Really. Will pay someone else to delete it without reading it. (He didn’t respond; hopeful he didn’t receive it at all.)
Crumpled into a seat on the ferry and fell immediately asleep listening to extremely loud iPod.
Woke up as the ferry solidly thumped into San Francisco. Drool on chin: check. Ears bleeding from Black Flag: check. Tipsy confusion as to where the hell I am and how did I get here: check.
Stumbled back to the subway, listening to William Shatner’s new album. Smiled to myself the whole way home. Got v. strange looks from crazy people. As a consequence, had entire sidewalk to myself again. This plan works, people.
Got into polarfleece pajamas and flannel-sheeted bed at 20:30. Mmmmmmrrmrmmrrm. Then woke up at midnight-thirty. Surprised that my sleep schedule is so screwed! Really! How! Could! This! Happen!