The Road More Traveled

I spoke too soon. The boy, he called. Coffee, homework, and chinese. In that order.

 

Six hours of witty banter, post-modern theory, and then Charles and Jack (our favorite vagrants).

 

I miss interacting with smart people on a daily basis. Not to say that my other friends aren't smart, but they have little interest in philosopy, literature, music, or anything that extends much beyond daily life.

 

That is depressing. I went to sleep being really depressed and not just about my own life. I felt really depressed about the lives of all the people I know. How tragically hopeless, how pointless, how confining.

 

When I woke up I was happy again. Sleep does that. I also wrote a brilliant paper on Middle Eastern Policy. Yes, brilliant (but only because I used gigantic words I didn't even know I knew I knew).

 

I don't even know if I like this boy. I just know that I appreciate his company. I needn't censor myself around him and I find myself being remarkably honest when he asks me questions, even about things that I am not honest with myself about. Like my career.

 

I told him I didn't really want to be a corporate liar (Pubic Relations)

I told him that I'd like to go to Africa and to Eastern Europe and to inner city America and write stories. And then publish them in National Geographic.

 

 

He told me he wanted to be a beatnik.

I told him that would be ridiculous.

What would you do with your free time? I asked.

Write music he said. Then he decided that would be cliche.

Which I said would defy the whole purpose of being a beatnik.

 

He told me that he'd be really angry with me if I didn't go to Africa. And I believe him.