So I exaggerate…

It was Monday, and I went to the square. The sun was out, like usual, I guess, and it was warm. Warm enough for February, anyway. When I came back from class, there was still snow and ice on the ground, even though it was 60 out. The square is up north, past the K-Mart, past the post office, but closer than the Sam’s Club and Wal-Mart. No one really planned this town—it just grew like a blade of grass off the highway, tapering to a point at the Wal-Mart. There’s really nothing north of there except DC, but that’s easily a two-hour spin. In any case, I don’t go to the Wal-Mart, because I don’t like driving. And I don’t usually go to the square, but I convinced myself somehow that I could find jeans there.

Traffic wasn’t so bad, it was midday, and only the unemployed and college students have nothing to do in the early afternoon on a Monday. At the entrance to Sears they had these wash and dry machines lined up; they looked the same as my mom’s, but they were these rad colors like green and orange. I don’t think my mom would go for a washing machine that’s burnt orange. I looked around for the men’s section. It’s funny, you’d think that guys would need just as much rags as gals, but the guys section is much much smaller. I wonder if that makes my jeans less unique, with less variety to go around. My roomate only has one pair of jeans he wears continuously for three weeks and then washes. I can’t do that. He also talks with his brother on the phone at least once a day. I suppose I could do that, but I don’t. I wanted to try my new jeans on before I dropped a ben on them, so I scoped for a fitting room or something. There’s one right as the men’s section becomes the women’s section, so I headed over to it. All the signs in the store had Spanish subtitles beneath them. I didn’t see any Spaniards around, though. Maybe they were all at work, and not spending at Sears. The lady at checkout told me I couldn’t use this fitting room, it was for the women’s section of the store, and the men’s fitting room was on the other side. I hadn’t noticed it before, so I embarrasedly jat over to the far corner of the store to try on the jeans. 31 fit me for one pair, 32 for the other. Both of my bath towels were scrag in the laundry bin, so I bought a new towel too. I guess I can be pretty lazy.

I decided I need a new wallet, too, because the other one ripped a hole. They had a nice velcro one with a chain at another store, and I bought it. Velcro wallets are the worst, because if you ever have to open one in a quiet room, it’s really loud. Still, I always wear velcro wallets.

My roomate is always talking on the phone; it sounds like he’s arguing. He raises his voice and says “No, man!” a lot. I don’t know why it bothers me. I guess it would bother you too if someone only let you hear half a conversation. We get along pretty well, even though we style differently. I’m pretty ADD, jumping from one thing to the next, while he stays focused on his routine. He also gets up a great deal earlier than I like to do, but usually I don’t notice, I just keep on sleeping.

I slept in past noon today because I haven’t been cashing in for more than 3 a night lately, and I was pretty wasted last night. Me and Dave got a 12-pack at the Kroger last night, he was buying, and the cashier got mad when I heaved the beer up to the counter. They said that I couldn’t even touch it unless I showed my license. I get carded all the time; I know that’s not unusual, but I think people underestimate my age. When I was a senior in high school, a lot of people thought I was still a sophomore or a junior. Most of my friends are younger, too. I don’t really “want” to be a different age—in fact, 21 is supposed to be one of the best ages—but sometimes I wish I didn’t have to act my own. Funny that people ask you to “act” your own age rather than just be it.

We had pizza and drank and watched TV last night. I just needed a break, I had just been out of town for a few days. I know I should have been working to catch up, but I don’t work like that. It’s a good thing I was a little loosed, otherwise it would have been a sad night. I don’t really have a social life, not like I did back in high school. Not like I was some kind of social butterfly (what a lame expression) but I had a good time. Here at college, things are awkward. I haven’t had a girl in a really long time. I guess I should get out more.

I was in New Orleans the weekend before that. I only had a few drinks, and I saw a load of tits. Most of them I could have done without, but I guess you take what you can get. The scary thing is most people there are really old. I don’t want to be a sad old person that gets freaky at Mardi Gras. Being in the huge crowds is cool, I guess, but it’s just mindless. A bunch of fucking sheep milling around, yelling, grabbing for beads. The difference between them and me is that they get high by diminishing their consciousness as much as possible, but I get high by feeling, experiencing, living. They want to forget living and stop feeling. I want to feel everything. I want to live short and sweet. I figure I won’t last all that long, but I don’t know why anyone would want to hang around for 100 years anyway.

Graduation’s coming up. We got our cap and gown that Wednesday—it was free, but they pushed you to pledge money to the alumni fund. Shit, I said, if I make any money after I grad, I’ll throw some change your way. The girl behind the counter was sorta cute, but she was sort of a tool, too. I just told her I’d take the pledge card and fill it out later. I think it found the trash that same day.

I was saving up to buy a new computer, which means I was trying not to spend money on random shit that I didn’t need. It wasn’t going too well—blew thirty at the record store the same night. I can’t keep doing this, I told myself. Things were changing all around me; it was about time I changed, too.