My commute

I sashay down to the corner with heels clip-clopping, hitting the sidewalk past buildings tall enough to make the tourists and freshmen (the only people who bother to stop and look at things) crane their neck. There, the bus stop, a clear, plexiglass construction provides shelter from wind, rain, and cars for a quick lunch break. When the red Circulator roars up, I rummage through my bag to discover an errant dollar, smooth it out to feed it to the hungry fare machine, which slurps it up impatiently, and hurry to the back of the bus and sit on a colorful, itchy window seat and stare at the scenery - stacked office buildings with trendy, colorful restaurants and story-after-story of grey windows, white walls, and brown desks. An occasional glimpse of green plant lends hope for the colorful, but that may be a trick of the heart. On the other side of the street, parks occasionally lend life and dimension to the wall of offices, with green grass and statues of dead heroic figures. Invariably, they will be empty, except for the occasional homeless person, with layers of clothes and a garbage bag full of precious possessions. As the ride up K St. goes on, the buildings get less lavish and more imperial. More trash litters the sidewalk. Gourmet food trucks - painted bright colors and decorated with clever names park on the street - waiting for hungry workers to get a sudden urge for cheesecake, mac and cheese, Italian pizza, BBQ, and organic ice cream.
My stop is next - I adjust my grip on my briefcase and stand up - hurriedly flailing for balance as the bus decelerates. I avoid the hawkers looking for unsuspecting tourists, bounce across the street, then pick my way carefully over the grates, cobbles, and homeless people covered in tarps against the marble walls of federal buildings. I cross the street, avoiding zooming taxi-cabmen, and join the throngs of cubicle-dwellers, wait for someone to open the door to my building, and head to the elevator (10th floor, if you would, please) and get ready to work.

It's depressing how accurate this is...

(credit to smbc)

We Wear the Mask

Paul Laurence Dunbar wrote this and I think it's amazing.

    WE wear the mask that grins and lies,
    It hides our cheeks and shades our eyes,—
    This debt we pay to human guile;
    With torn and bleeding hearts we smile,
    And mouth with myriad subtleties.

    Why should the world be over-wise,
    In counting all our tears and sighs?
    Nay, let them only see us, while
            We wear the mask.

    We smile, but, O great Christ, our cries
    To thee from tortured souls arise.
    We sing, but oh the clay is vile
    Beneath our feet, and long the mile;
    But let the world dream otherwise,
            We wear the mask!

Been Here Before - and it hasn't gotten any better

I remember every new-school first week I've ever had - preschool where I chased my mother back to her car crying the whole way, my various elementary schools and awkward hellos, middle school - I was actually happy for this one, because I got to hide among the masses, my first high school where I hid out in the library, my second high school sophomore year where I ate my lunch in the bathroom for the first week because I didn't have anywhere else to go, my first college where I researched politics constantly to fill the hole that was left by all my friends (and th3 Goofball) leaving to grand adventures without me, and my second college, where I didn't even try to make friends.  I remember the depression, the time-wasting, the renewed focus on classes, the awkward hellos and the desperate (while trying to seem not too desperate) pleas for friends, the moping, the self-pity.

I remember being able to escape home at the end of the day.

Now that I've transferred to the other coast, I'm back to square one, with added cultural barriers and strange customs and no one that I can talk to without hiding part of myself first.  Even after being here over a month, I still get lost and have no idea how to translate friendly faces into actual friends.  I can't go home - not for the weekend, not for Thanksgiving, not for Christmas, maybe not for summer.  I'm stuck in a small, creaky room in an old hall in a school full of pretentious, wealthy clones and freezing weather and I can't escape.

Well, I could, probably.  But I am not going to - and knowing that somehow makes it worse.

My addiction

 (empty wrappers from my impromptu snack-time today)

Just so you know, I can quit anytime I want to.

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I just really don't want to quit.