wildcat

I trekked to campus today to pick my final Short Fiction Techniques paper only to find that there was no box for the class, my prof wasn't there, and no evidence in the boxes of any of her other classes. I'm the only one in the class who didn't get my paper back, because she didn't feel like marking them before, you know, the exam was being written.

Herman's was bad last night. I had fun with Michael and Rob, but the waitress looked like Liza Minelli with a faux-hawk and couldn't be bothered to actually be helpful. And the calamari was dull. And the jazz was crap. And the drinks were watered down - I didn't really even feel my two rum-cokes, which is a bloody good clue that there was a lot of water in there. Joy left a message while I was in the jazz club - drunkenly from Big Bad John's - exclaiming for five minutes that because I hadn't returned her phone call from an hour before (I was at work at that point), I was obviously having a lot of sex right at that moment, which was a "perfectly understandable reason not to answer the phone." It went on like that, which is always weird to hear when you're walking home through Fernwood and you categorically haven't been having sex all night, even if you did get a very lovely good night kiss.

Got home at midnight and did laundry. Then I wrote for about an hour. After that - bedtime. And now I'm at school and about to head downtown to write with Joy for a while at Cafe Namaste. I might go see Matrix Revolutions tonight for five bucks at the Roxy, possibly also Lost in Translation. I've never actually gone to a movie by myself, which is a strange consideration because any film is something you really only see by yourself, even if you're with people. But it'll be good because then nobody has to hear about any problems I have with story or over-CGI-ing.

Evelyn Lau rocks the casbah, by the way. Brutal, brutal stuff.