rain, I don't mind. shine, the weather's fine.

I was really excited to get a good night's sleep last night after all my napping success.
I did all my homework.
I showered.
I brushed my teeth.
I got all my things ready for school.
I even picked out an outfit.
and then I went to sleep.

I woke up with time to spare.
I sat on the edge of my bed, and closed my eyes for some deep-breathing exercises.
I WAKE UP over 45 minutes later, now late for class, and I get in the shower.
I was able to shower, makeup, and blow-dry myself in 15 minutes, no small accomplishment.
But then I looked outside.
Of course, it would be fucking raining on my parade.

My dress and tights combination was not suited for the harrowing walk down Holloway, so I scrambled around in my closet for a few minutes, decided to wear whatever smelled least like an old man, and practically ran the 2 miles to SFSU.

I was late.
and my communications professor, who hates me anyway, just glared.

things got better after that.
I grabbed some lunch and went home to change in between classes.
I warmed my pants on my radiator, and I headed back to my creative writing class.
We had a reading quiz. on the only reading I hadn't done since the class started.
That went wonderfully.

But I really do love that class.

Afterwards, I met up with my good friend Marc, and we kind of strolled around campus for lack of better things to do. I like him because he's a talker, which means I don't have to think of things to say.

Then I went grocery shopping at whole foods because my cupboards are so bare that I'm on the verge of malnutrition.
Honestly, this is what I had in my cupboard/fridge before this afternoon: margerine, pasta sauce, soy milk, salsa, jam, maple syrup, and frozen pineapple. Tasty.

But, things are looking up.
I'm full of vegetables, and both of my shoulders are sore from the sheer weight of all the food I had to lug home.

who could ask for anything more?

Also, here's the poem(s) I got back today in Creative Writing:

Thirteen Ways of Looking at the Ground

Earth.
The last love that ever died:
hanging from the ground,
dangling in the sky.

Bedrock.
It is Unmoving like the
ground
under which a
story
reveals itself.

Soil.
I move.
They move.
We move.
Inspired by the ground.

Leaf Litter.
The stars are so close
from where they lay in their overcoats
watching and praying
while the world meets its end.

Metal.
Smells like ancient rust,
feels soft-spoken.
Flesh, bone, and blood
made of corrugated steel.

Sand.
Tiny fragmented pieces
of once-impenetrable rock.
Demolished by the slow smooth swell
of an earthly flux.
Now lost to aqueous theft,
never to return
it's best to Know what it is that is left.

Linoleum.
Life spent in a suburb flying
like a piece of nothing plucked
from the floor,
caught in the yellow zephyr
of a life unlived.
Life spent in a city chained
to the ground
like an old house aching
to be
knocked
down.

Terra Firma.
Sluggish sculling in between
Waters made of guillotines.
Men grew porous with disease,
Drowned in screaming, spitting seas.
'Till the travelers' expiration:
Dry land, anchor, and salvation.

Pavement.
A refuge for all the eyes
not daring to peer into
those of a stranger,
for fear they might
truly see.
We hide in the ground,
cower in caves,
take shelter underfoot,
and thwart insight with every step.

Concrete.
Her one deep-rooted,
steadfast,
anchored,
hope of heaven
shattered by the solidity
of the concrete tied to her shoes.

Grass.
Dreamers lulling livers
into quiet sleep
upon some cloud,
fall,
be cast down,
land quite harshly
on this native downy ground.

Asphalt.
crackling
crinkling
crumbling earth.
unknown fire's slow rebirth.
earth, we know, so strong, steadfast,
rewritten by some distant past.

Carpet.
the birds fall with broken wings,
we fly,
freed from the gravity
of reality.