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Tue, Jul. 12th, 2005, 09:20 am
my mood is still an unsigned int, despite the fact my entry was eaten

SALIENT PREFATORY NOTE: Happy birthday, meretricula dear! I should have posted it yesterday.
IRRELEVANT PREFATORY LINK: Margaret Thatcher slash

While I was walking to work today, I realized the many comforting certainties that come with a life of routine. Latin School had its own particular epileptic rhythm, yes, but I actually sincerely enjoy the ebb and flow of existence right now.

I know my Silver Line bus will arrive at exactly 7:05, and I'll get a friendly greeting from the silver-haired, portly man who drives it.

I know I will never have more than three fellow passengers on the entire journey to South Station.

I know however many times I race down the steps at South Station to catch the 7:15 train to Harvard station, I'll always be dropped off thirty seconds too late. But I'll always get a comfortable seat on the last car of the 7:20.

I know the man who hands out Metros on the Harvard station mezzanine will always give me mine with a smile.

I know the right stroke of the second metal letter 'N' in the "Kennedy" on the JFK Street "Kennedy School of Government" sign will always be bent thirty degrees inward because I can't force it back into position.

I know the Allston-side signage on the Eliot Bridge across the Charles will always have its "I ♥ ASS" and "School of Assassins" stickers on it.

I know the grass by the Murr Athletic Center on North Harvard Street will always be fresh-cut, and that regardless of the weather, there will be at least one man jogging on the rubberized track next to the stadium.

I know there will never be more than ten minutes of work for me to do in the morning before the noon mail delivery.

I know every single employee at Subway, and they know to make a footlong meatball marinara sandwich on parmesan oregano bread with provolone, toasted, adding olives, as soon as I walk in the door.

And I know that my boss Chris will let us off fifteen minutes before he's supposed to every single day, and still pay us for it.

Mom is off in the Netherlands right now (as much as I love the Netherlands, I'm glad for her - she deserves her vacation), and in her absence, I've added a new ritual that's perhaps the most pleasant of all: eating breakfast with Dad. Typically, for the last three weeks Mom would shake me awake at twenty minutes of seven - enough time to dress and ablute hapazardly and forget to pack something important in my bag. But now, I'm up at twenty minutes of six (although my alarm goes off at a quarter past five), I shower, I put on coffee, fix myself some toast and fruit, and sit on the couch with Dad, drinking, eating, watching the news, and enjoying the pleasure of light conversation with him. Because Jacob has taken to incredibly erratic sleeping patterns, he's never awake before I leave for work, which lends a peaceful, beautiful intimacy to time with Dad. That sort of easy being is what I'm going to miss the most when I head across the river in September.

In a large part, though, my unusually good mood is based in my lovely evening with eala yesterday. I met her after work in Harvard Square to purchase presents for meretricula (happy belated, dear!) - and she was quite successful, if I do say so myself. I'm still working on figuring out my present, though. Rest assured that it will be at least four-sevenths rawk. We walked down Mass Ave, were horsed by an apparently pantless thiscoinferno and his comrade-in-arms thebawmdotcawm, and ran into the ever-more-law-studently swirlycurlzz at the Stratton center, wherein we DDR'ed lightly. Taking the ghetto route (number 1 to Orange Line to 34E to nasty West Roxbury dirt alleys) back to eala's house, we proceeded to occupy ourselves with digital harrassment of etiolation and thefacebook-mockery, until her parents called us downstairs and treated us to an exceptional, and completely unexpected, dinner in honor of my graduation.

Upon arriving at the table, eala and I promptly earned the Charisma Carpenter Dramatic Irony Award of the Day. While we were walking home and discussing drinking at the Argo party, upon my mentioning that I like champagne, Anneke said, "Well, it's not like you're having champagne any time soon." Sure enough, the table was set with a card tied with raffia (the "manly" decoration, quoth she) and 4.5 flutes of sparkling white, and we chowed down on shrimp risotto, a beautifully dressed salad, and a plum tart for the better part of two hours. At no other dinner table besides my own do I feel so comfortable - serious conversation, family banter, eala's and my apartment, and Jim Schwob's awesome dramatic interpretation of Jane. Karina and eala drove me home, and when I got inside, Dad was unexpectedly... pleasant. In short, it completely rocked.

Pleasant surprises online as well: opening a gay hotel in the third world with thiscoinferno, thegrubbie05 and The Men Who Love Her, keyboard de-griming with cette_vie, and a challenging conversation with impensada over Darfur (which began, auspiciously enough, with my going to Hell).

All this is leading up oh-so-very nicely to next Monday, when, in the words of Dad, "[I] earn the legal right to fuck up my life". Yes, it's the Emancipation Birthday. Celebrations will probably be postponed until Mom's return from Europe (it's just not a party without pie, in my opinion). Things I plan to do:

  • Go to that stupid, piece of shit jewelry party at Castra and photograph all of the test prep books Ms. Bauer is too anal to let out of her sight.
  • Open bank accounts with Bank of America that have nothing at all to do with those of my parents. Although I'm sure I'll get funny looks for depositing $6,000 in cash. V. sketchy.
  • Get my U.S. passport, again.
  • Get my learner's permit without my dad having to give his consent.
  • BUY PORN. I think. Though I'm not sure where, or how I plan to do so.

    Also, as far as the dating "scene" goes, I'll magically be transformed from a socially awkward, woefully inexperienced, and unattractive member of the homogeneously slutty seventeen-and-under demographic to a naïve piece of "fresh meat" for forty-year-old perverts in the far more heterogeneously slutty eighteen-and-over demographic. At least that's what I'm inferring; thiscoinferno or the other "older men" on my f-list may correct me appropriately.

    That said, I'm off to spend time with my homies Allen and Greenough, even though Morford and Lenardon are probably the ones I need to hang out with. Myth isn't going to learn itself, but grammar is sexier.

    Ta, all.
  • Tue, Jul. 12th, 2005 03:36 pm (UTC)
    columbiapr

    Oh to turn 18!!

    When I turned 18 I did the following as well:
    1) Got a bank account
    2) Bought a pack of cigarettes
    3) Bought a scratch ticket
    4) Went into Amazing (you know what I'm talking about- lol)
    5) Went to a club.

    All in all it what very good. Enjoy yourself now that you will be legal (not entirely though but more than what you have now).

    Tue, Jul. 12th, 2005 07:17 pm (UTC)
    bartok

    18, good lord that seems young now...

    of course 30 no longer seems old, strange how that happens.

    anyways, as you can probably guess, no card with *$s coupons this year I'm afraid. I'm not going through THAT mess again!

    Tue, Jul. 12th, 2005 07:23 pm (UTC)
    alliensis

    That, and New Zealand's sheep-based postal service is notoriously touch-and-go.

    Tue, Jul. 12th, 2005 08:26 pm (UTC)
    bartok

    especially since those bastards went union.

    Tue, Jul. 12th, 2005 09:52 pm (UTC)
    thegrubbie05

    haha you just made me laugh darling. it sounds like some cheesey soap opera. too bad they are cancelling on me left and right.

    Fri, Aug. 26th, 2005 11:08 am (UTC)
    oddcellist

    Not that I know anything about this, but if you're looking to legitimate-ish sources, gay bookstores often have a large collection of both print and media porn. According to Bay Windows, though, Boston seems to have lost one of the gay bookstores in town, leaving you with just one option - Calamus, somewhere around South Station (I sort of know how to get there, but dude, I get lost every time. I hate that area sometimes).

    Fri, Aug. 26th, 2005 12:24 pm (UTC)
    alliensis

    I made my first purchases on the Internet and made a programming project out of it, although classy porn might be nice. South Station is kind of a gross area to have a gay bookstore, though. I wonder why there isn't one in the South End.

    Fri, Aug. 26th, 2005 03:00 pm (UTC)
    oddcellist

    Oh, there used to be. "We Think The World Of You," which then changed its name to "Cuttyhunk," was open as recently as March. Amusingly, I can't remember the name of the big street it was on - began with a B, and I want to say Boylston, but in any case it wasn't more than a few blocks from the Ballet. However, it seems to have closed despite the owner's note that business was doing well; he wanted to "focus on his real-estate business." Fine, then.

    Calamus is kind of in a gross spot, and that apparently, according to Bay Windows, has been a complaint about its location as well, but on the other hand it's all there is left in Boston.

    Fri, Aug. 26th, 2005 04:10 pm (UTC)
    alliensis

    It's on Berkeley Street, as a matter of fact - whenever I go down to watch my friend's recitals at CMCB and we'd go to get food or summat, I'd always notice it. I think it had moved its location once before. Well, if the owner wanted to focus on his real-estate business, he can go right ahead and enjoy the colonic prolapse that's coming with the crash of the market in 2006.

    Have you been to Calamus?

    Fri, Aug. 26th, 2005 09:49 pm (UTC)
    oddcellist

    Yeah, I have. It's a decent place - got my two-buck copy of Brideshead Revisited there.

    Doesn't stop me from getting lost every time I try to go, though.