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mudpiegrl (profile) wrote,
on 2-14-2006 at 1:50pm
Current mood: contemplative going to do some mass typing. im sorry if you actually try to get through these...i wrote them all on the train and i want to put them in here. i wish i had a laptop so that i could just type it on the train. it would go so much faster. and in case you hadnt noticed, my internet is back up! woo! the stuff in green is going to be stuff about people on the train, stuff that isnt all that important, although it may lead so something in the white that is about me, and unless you've recently spoken to me or read my mind, probably dont know.

Train Entry One
The man in front of the other writes in red pen on a printed paper. He has a phone on his right ear. He picks his nose with his pinky. He has a striped blue and white polo on; Skipper style. He rechecks his bag; a portfolio briefcase. A greenish-brown trench coat, slightly balding, thin brown hair. Holds phone awkwardly.
"Then we'll supplement it. And we can talk then about how it...Right, sure. Right. Right. Okay. Okay! That'd be great. What uh, what your office. Oh, that's right. Okay, I'll do that for don't think it makes sense...supplement...okay, yeah. Thanks. ::click::"

He's texting. Back to his stack of papers: flip, flip so delicatly. Chews nails...mmm, eating it. Needs more. Looks good, sir.

I'd rather be writing about the man across from me. "Fuck!" he said as he threw down his bag. He breathed heavily and the train began to move. He took out his Ipod and swore again and smacked it's shiny, white plastic. He turned his head to put the buds in his ears, first the right, then the left. Next, he produced a Subway sandwich. Heíd flipped the seat in front of him to form a table. He spread the paper out and opened his cheese chips bad. He rigidly ate it, keeping his back straight. Yet, he was {something that isnít a word}. He ate the chips one by one, but speedily. He finished the sandwich and squished the wrapper into a ball. He drank his Orange Crush with a straw. A preposterous motion that reminds me of eating pizza with a fork and knife. Eventually came a candy bar, which he ate rigidly, too, however, he stared out the window. Precisely the moment he finished, he produced a small, unidentifiable object. He opened a valve and blew into it. Ah, a neck pillow. He still has not removed his awful turtle shell-framed sunglasses. Ha, he relaxes. His shoes are off, he lounges with his feet on the opposing seat. He reads the Wall Street Journal. Khaki pants, white button-down shirt, brown belt, black socks, but brown shoesÖnot a complete travesty; he doesnít have brown golfer socks.

Train Entry Two
Seven stops Ďtil mine. I've just finished an entertaining short story from a book written in í67 of contemporary stories. However, it was written sometime between 1900-í20. I caught this kid kiddy corner to me glancing at me. Understandably, of course, cuz I must say, my eys have been taking glances at him as well. He sips his jamba juice and is semi-reading a magazine with a title, from what I can read, can only be inferred as Giant Robots. Heís not spectacularly interesting, but thatís part of the allure, I suppose. The lady in front of him is about thirty-two and her name is Jennifer. She has a pleasantly fake demeanor. Above them is a silent, but interesting girl who appears to be drawing. At first, I was confused as to her gender, but then she was looking out the window. Oh, my writing is atrocious. I came up with an idea. Perhaps one that would be best noted in film form, but a challenge to write; I think Iíll try it. I constantly observe people anyway, like the way the older couple in front of me match in burgundy sweaters or the sociology and chemistry student who has been talking to the kid across the aisle about her classes. He responded with a slight Russian accent. Above is a man who was yelling on the phone in Spanish, although I was confused as to where it came from at first. How simply interesting everyone else is and how dully boring I am. I make observations between my friends and I, but they are relationships about which I couldnít possibly write about; they have no story to which I could find the beginning and the end.

So my idea is to write of the train and convos I hear. Then, Iíll invent small stories, Shelock Holmes style. Perhaps thatís what Sir Arthur Conan OíDoyle began doing.
Questioning whether the old couple discussed wearing burgundy today. Or if the woman intends her pleasant bullshit. It may be that the boy that just exited the train, the boy who has left my life forever, was just as interesting in my as I had been in him and his magazine.
Heís putting eye drops in her eye. I wonder if she turns up his hearing aid.
Strange. A Barbie Jeep in a bike rack. A funny picture it is to see a business man dressed for work riding on the sidewalk and parking his daughterís Jeep there. Perhaps an example of never growing upÖa good ad for Disneyworld, eh? You can be an adult and do adult things, but donít forget to have as much fun as a kid on the way there.
The man is holding plastic on his nose. It looks like a bib from Bob Chinís. Oh, an ice pack. A sinus infection?
Ah, my stop.

Train Entry Three
I picked up my stuff instead of sleeping, but no one is too terribly interesting that I have to write about them. The girl is reading Intro to Information Technology. She has an orange highlighter. My mind is pretty blank, actually. I was just thinking how, despite how fundamental the idea is, Patrice is like a dog that licks your face and sits beside you when you cry. Thatís why people easily return to her after their spurt of deciding someone self is more interesting for a time. I do pity her for that, because itís quite the painful commodity to have: ditched and regained after the other has lost interest. For once, I notice it in myself and add it to the list, rather than exclude myself. So I feel particularly horrible to be a burden and such, because I know itís not the last time, but I feel bashfully grateful for her care. I donít consider myself ďwoundedĒ in the least from Justin, but rather ďoff-trackĒ. I've strayed and sheís a kind, familiar map thatís always in my pocket and I know so, but sometimes I grow immune to the presence. Thatís something that really goes for the lot of my friends: the immunity, and so, I apologize. Kristenís my warning sign, a reflector-coated neon-coated roadblock updater. I also owe her an apology for not listening to her warnings because sheís consistently right. I know I should feel lost, because I am, but at the same time, Iím remotely comfortable with the position.
As if the constant, intangible debt and guilt is not enough, I am in monetary debt of either party as well. I have a job, so money will come soon, but there are things I want. I know stress will soon bear down on me too much and I will need protective services in my vulnerability, although I will refuse to admit it. One stop. Gíday.

Train Entry Four
I know I should do my chem. But I've though so much since 11:03AM (itís 11:37). I was drawing with my dry erase marker and I organized my binder. I have a paper due Thursday. (ďTickets, please!Ē that reminds me-I got a ticket in front of Patriceí; thatís $75 on top of the $105.50 I owe for skipped tolls. Way to go, Jorie.) The girl behind me is asking her friend questions that intrigue me as to what her response could be. She told her she was being a hypocrite and things I related to my own stupidity with Justin; how could I be so dumb for so long? I suppose itís all about the picture youíre standing so close to that you see a small portion thatís so beautiful, you wonít let your friends pull you back to see how hideous the entire thing is. Your perception is warped when youíre that close.

ďI think youíre naÔve. I think you donít know. No-that james lies.Ē

Wow, thatís honesty.
Oh, why did I start thinking? Yes. I saw justinís mum. She didnít say hi or anything when I smiled at her. I wonder if she knows. I know and accept everything that happened and I sort of feel like Iím hiding from it. Seeing her is like synchronicity. That Carl Jung is a silly bitch.
Patrice gave me a valentine. I want to make her something. Maybe a secret admirer thing, lol.
Know what drives me nuts? Donut. DONUT?! HOW PRIMITIVELY LAZY!!! THE WORD IS DOUGHNUT! In fourth grade, we had to correct ssentances for spelling and grammar everyday. That was one of those words! What is a nut? A pit; a center of a fruit. A doughnut is a ring of dough, missing its nut. Thatís logical, although more so would be nutless dough, but then thereís evolution of the word. Donut, on the other hand- DO?! Do can be pronounced dū, in which case, itís a verb. Dō can be a musical tool for tuning oneís voice, however, DO-NUT makes no logical sense! I've seen it twice today and itís lazy! T hatís like writing BAL-A on your building because itís shorter. Or the online slang used on a building. And donít get me wrong, Iím all for being different, so whomever was first to say, ďHey, Iím not going to label my joint by what I sell, but make it recognizable by the spelling,Ē the way corporationsdo with colour and placement, but donut is now socially acceptable to the point where I had an argument with someone who insisted that donut was correct.
ďWhatís up, my home skillets? &hearts Chica 2/10/06Ē

Sorry, I know it was a pointless rant but it is a reflection of how easily society is swayed, my opinions of which are persuaded by V for Vendetta as well as sociology class.
Gosh, I've written a lot. I sort of miss Ian and Zak. Iím afraid to see them because of Justinís influence on them. Heís very persuasive.
On the other hand, most everyone seems to like me at Yardhouse. However, none of which are probably friend quality, as far as I can tell. Amandaís going to apply, so thatíll be cool.
I've been hanging out with Trix. Oh, I love Patrice! I just hope she doesnít get annoyed or anything. I want to hang out with Kristen, too, but sheís crew and I have work and school, so thereís NEVER time. Iím done-
Golf, thatís the line into the knowledgeable. Glenview. Iím glad I donít have to work today.

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