friskin

The last name of a long lost friend finally came back to me. School is almost done and for all intents and purposes my brain has shut down. The only thing keeping me from getting totally totally smashed is the possible field trip tomorrow morning. And a lack of psychoactive substances? There is so much that I forget to say. I don't mean to keep secrets; I'm just kind of shy. I came away from the White Elephant with a tiny, wind-up penguin and I couldn't be happier with it. I filled in for the Lovelace at the station today. I battled with technology, laughed at my own jokes, and openly professed my deep-seated and everlasting love for Danny Elfman to a listenership of zero. Later, JoJo and Shannon and I discussed forming band to end all bands while (puffy)painting our Celtic pride onto white t-shirts.

I sometimes wonder how I can run into my shyness like it's a brick wall.

This girl was crying -- sobbing -- in the bathroom tonight when I got home. As I went in, I heard the faucet turn on. A guy was standing protectively behind her as she bent over the sink, half drinking, half soaking her red face in the running water. He made eye contact with me through the mirror and with a compassionate half-eyebrow raise and pouty yet understanding twitch of the chin we both said nothing. I never say anything to her anyhow, except maybe "thanks" when she hesitates to let the door slam shut in my face. She never says anything to me. This might have been the most appropriate time to keep my big mouth closed. Still, I wondered what was wrong. The first two things that popped into my head were:

1. She's pregnant.
OR
2. Someone died.

It's strange and kind of (darkly, grotesquely) funny that I thought of them in that order. She'll be okay or she won't and life will go on. I'll secretly wish her well, but I probably won't ever need or necessarily want to interact with her. I've got bigger fsh to fri.