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I deserve a quiet life

I woke up this morning together and connected once again. I check my mail to see if that Russian painter e-mailed me back. He asked me about Jean-Michael Basquiat and if I could send him some catalouges he’s been looking for that are unavailable in Russia. As I pondered on this, I grab my sociology book and continued reading about gender and how it factors into American life. I noticed that green cut-out leaf that I had left on my desk from weeks before and the phone rang. It was Andy, he’s still out of town in North Carolina until sunday. We talked about life and he told me I was being aloft again. He compared me to Jimmy Dean and I compared him to a ravaged AIDS patient with hysteria. We laughed like we always do after a good insult. He told me he was on a walk and I told him I was on a journey. He asked what that meant and I told him I had met an indian guy last night. I looked up at my copy of Bhagavad Gita and began daydreaming about telling this nameless indian boy how beautiful I found him. I don’t use that word often enough on people. Beautiful is usually saved for things rather than people. Andy told me that doesn’t sound like how I usually speak about guys, I laughed began to tell him I was joking and I was unable to feel anything other than pleasure when it came to attraction. I ended the conversation shortly after saying I had to get back to studying but I just felt horrible for actually allowing myself to think…no daydream about a stranger. That’s not me. I don’t daydream about anything save the force one would need to severe someone’s head with a spork or what would happen on the next cop drama on tonight episode. That moment of staring at each other last night was like bending a spoon.

I wish I could be playing twister.

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