|Spring Semester--A Peek at the Peaks and a Look at the Lows (Jest the Beginning)
||[May. 20th, 2003|11:40 pm]
Oh, You Know
|||||Magnetic Fields -- I'm Sorry I Love You||]|
You know, I hadn’t realized how long its been since I’d written to report my sins--my sixth semester has already come and gone. So now, in spite of the scarily straightforward title of that last little pugnacious post, I think it’s time for a recap of the mishaps and missteps of spring semester. If I may:
I wrote a play.
In the middle of fall semester, I was fortunate enough to fall headfirst into a time honored Reed tradition: The Hum Play. One part sensationalist study aid, one part freewheeling farce, the play parodies all of the major literary and philosophical texts that each Reedie is required to digest in the form of Hum 110, a year-long course that everyone is required to take freshman year. For the past nine years, it has changed hands at the sole discretion of the director; usually it’s given to someone who has acted in the cast. As I met this sole criterion (I played Sappho as a sophomore.), it didn’t take much cajoling to convince the old director to pass the banner to me--
Me: Hey Nick, uh... How do I get involved with writing The Hum Play?
Nick: I give it to you.
Me: Uh, okay.
Me: Uh, so... You just give it to me?
Nick: It’s yours. Enjoy!
And that was the easiest part. Subsequently, I spent the majority of spring semester fretting, futzing, figuring and frantically running around campus and the greater Portland area, looking for actors and Hercules the Mighty Warrior Deluxe Action Play Sets. To make a long story only slightly longer, the play was a big hit, based on the merit of the cast (The fantastic people I’ve met through this play made the sleepless nights and the rereading of a heavy bevy of antiquated texts completely worthwhile.) and some amazing cameos by nine members of the Hum 110 staff (i.e. “Pabst: Australian for crap.”). And, for a time, I got to sign my mass e-mails with “Nipples and armor, Meg.” Who could ask for anything more?
I went to every single class.
Just thinking about it makes me tired.
I went nuts at Renn Fayre.
I had an epic post on this, but Blitzmail ate it. Maybe another night when I am feeling adventurous.
Christina’s twenty-third birthday party was a night to remember. In honor of the event, her father rented out the upper level in a trendy little Asian fusion restaurant in downtown Portland; once a month on Friday night, it turns into a dance club. Having just been issued my new Maine I. D. the day before the festivities, I gained entrance after only five or ten minutes of being hassled by a female bouncer over the authenticity of my identification, while my friend Ingrid, emboldened by a bottle of wine, just breezed through the doors sans I. D. and proceeded to work the room, order a drink, and make out with a Spaniard for cigarettes without ever being questioned. The girl’s got style.
So once we made it to the upper level, we found the party already in full effect. Fancy pricey cocktails arrived and were imbibed; conversation flowed freely. You know, I think it was about midway through my second Sapphire and tonic when I proclaimed to my friends that I had designs on a man two tables away. He had dark hair, dark eyes, broad shoulders and a smile--my kind of cute. He was sitting with some theater majors I recognized, though I’d never seen him before. Intriguing.
I was calculating my attack when Tabitha arrived. I went over to talk to her and found myself strategically positioned by the exit, facing the nameless object of my affection. While we chatted, I made obvious eyes (My eyes are pretty obvious to begin with.) at the boy, who seemed to be returning my gaze, though I wasn’t really sure because I was having a hard time focusing. After about five minutes he got up, advanced toward me, and said “hi,” while breezing past me on his way out the exit. I ran the gamut of emotions upon rejection: chagrin, embarrassment, fear that I was losing my touch. I resigned myself to “well-he-wasn’t-that-cute-anyway” and went about my business carousing and cavorting.
Of course, that was until he came back from the bar downstairs, introduced himself, dropped a chair on my foot, and began romancing me. His name was Justin--and I suppose it still is, though we no longer speak. He was twenty-five, a computer guy, an ex-theater guy, a basketball fan, and eerily like the character Michael Bolton from Office Space (You know the really white computer guy who rocked out to rap music in the car? Justin was such a man; he even did the special Tupac “California Love” dance. Oh yes he did.). I broke up with him after about three or four weeks... and four days later he broke up with me. It was like a very strange dream.
And that brings us to why it didn’t all work out. You see, I was still hung up on....
That’s right kids--the one, the only Pool Hall Man and the author of most of last night’s post. It’s a long, bitter tryst that has finally crashed and burned; perhaps I’ll outline it for you another night. Let’s just say that, although I don’t agree with his actions, I don’t have a word to say in my defense. Indeed, if I put myself in his shoes, I think I'd probably be none too pleased about being dumped three times either. In fact, I would have killed him. These and other things are realizations that are too little and too late.
Like the realization that I actually love the bastard.
Other things happened.
More another night.