[Friday]
Good morning citizens. It is 830 on Friday morning. It is I, your faithful correspondent from the middling order of the young and barbad (there are so many worse, we are only daytrippers). I am the one standing in the corner of the metro with a book, in two dog hair covered cardigans, track pants in danger of falling off and combat boots, blasting Sublime while you all begin your days reading the paper and giving dirty looks to each other on public transport. I am supposed to be among you right now, nay, supposed to be in class. But I'm typing on my phone with slashed up fingers (last weekend, opening wine bottles with teeth and screwdriver; last night, ripping up Red Bull cans into spiral strips). I was supposed to be writing a paper for my one prof who inspires some sense of academic vigour in me. But as Dev and I discussed earlier, thirst for booze trumped thirst for knowledge (yes, we do say things like that and think we're damn clever afterwards.) I apologize for being banal. For not being spectacularly, majestically fucked up. Not being able to devote myself completely to the art of barbadi. So I could be a character you would write poignant generation defining stories about. I'm mediocre even in my vices. But I am happy. Because even in my reluctance all it took was a ziggurat shaped verse form email from a friend quoting one of our songs to get me grinning to myself and out the door. I could not resist my brethren when they reminded me it was bre-haspativar. So Dev and I trying our hardest to appear reluctant did our duty. We reached before everyone and drank. We drank to get everyone started off, we drank so no one would leave. We drank till we crashed. Only to awake to try and go to our respective classes.
I apologize, Prof, that you probably know me not from being bright in class but from having seen me smoking joints outside the center when you're standing right there under your tree and chainsmoking being aloof from your hangers on. And I'm sorry that I'm here writing this bullshit instead of reading my texts which I'm genuinely interested in. I love being packed into that class of 70, there's an odd intimacy in ducking into class and sitting on the floor, taking notes as fast as I can, sitting up trying to look at the sensei and occasionally doodling peoples shoes while fatbastard asks a ridiculous question; or sitting next to your college friend, writing chits about Captain America's desktop wallpaper (a picture of him and his wife sitting on a rock overlooking the sea and tequila sunset) while her A&A classmate doodles you with that cool squiggly sketchy style that you wish you could do; or how everyone in class erupts into laughter at fatbastard and his student's questions just because fatbastard has opened his mouth and everyone hates him. But mostly its because while the presence of everyone else in the room might make me feel stupid in every other class (and ok, also in yours when people have intelligent things to say) in this class everyone just shuts up and listens like "master, teach me".
Ok. Gonna go stop being a lazy dumbass now.
Love,
Sgt. Daytripper.
Good morning citizens. It is 830 on Friday morning. It is I, your faithful correspondent from the middling order of the young and barbad (there are so many worse, we are only daytrippers). I am the one standing in the corner of the metro with a book, in two dog hair covered cardigans, track pants in danger of falling off and combat boots, blasting Sublime while you all begin your days reading the paper and giving dirty looks to each other on public transport. I am supposed to be among you right now, nay, supposed to be in class. But I'm typing on my phone with slashed up fingers (last weekend, opening wine bottles with teeth and screwdriver; last night, ripping up Red Bull cans into spiral strips). I was supposed to be writing a paper for my one prof who inspires some sense of academic vigour in me. But as Dev and I discussed earlier, thirst for booze trumped thirst for knowledge (yes, we do say things like that and think we're damn clever afterwards.) I apologize for being banal. For not being spectacularly, majestically fucked up. Not being able to devote myself completely to the art of barbadi. So I could be a character you would write poignant generation defining stories about. I'm mediocre even in my vices. But I am happy. Because even in my reluctance all it took was a ziggurat shaped verse form email from a friend quoting one of our songs to get me grinning to myself and out the door. I could not resist my brethren when they reminded me it was bre-haspativar. So Dev and I trying our hardest to appear reluctant did our duty. We reached before everyone and drank. We drank to get everyone started off, we drank so no one would leave. We drank till we crashed. Only to awake to try and go to our respective classes.
I apologize, Prof, that you probably know me not from being bright in class but from having seen me smoking joints outside the center when you're standing right there under your tree and chainsmoking being aloof from your hangers on. And I'm sorry that I'm here writing this bullshit instead of reading my texts which I'm genuinely interested in. I love being packed into that class of 70, there's an odd intimacy in ducking into class and sitting on the floor, taking notes as fast as I can, sitting up trying to look at the sensei and occasionally doodling peoples shoes while fatbastard asks a ridiculous question; or sitting next to your college friend, writing chits about Captain America's desktop wallpaper (a picture of him and his wife sitting on a rock overlooking the sea and tequila sunset) while her A&A classmate doodles you with that cool squiggly sketchy style that you wish you could do; or how everyone in class erupts into laughter at fatbastard and his student's questions just because fatbastard has opened his mouth and everyone hates him. But mostly its because while the presence of everyone else in the room might make me feel stupid in every other class (and ok, also in yours when people have intelligent things to say) in this class everyone just shuts up and listens like "master, teach me".
Ok. Gonna go stop being a lazy dumbass now.
Love,
Sgt. Daytripper.
3 comments:
dude we should have a morning show. check e mail for what i've been doing all morning. you know what hemingway said about writing drunk and editing sober.
always remember to get retarded bro. (To lose the inhibition, follow your intuition)
Haha. Troy and Abed style. Hemingway's advice is pretty much what I do all the time. And I am always retarded bruv. Still haven't started writing the bloody thing.
do you remember the band who covered day tripper in the link you posted? the video's been removed
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