יצחק מייסטר (alliensis) wrote,
יצחק מייסטר

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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.
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