Yesterday, the University was having an arts festival, of sorts.
There were free tarot readings, uninspired novelty T-shirts, and a performance by Peter Wolf Crier. The night before I had wept on the phone to Nick about the lack of joy in my current day-to-day routine. He explained the importance of a carrot for my proverbial mule.
So I got in line for the tarot.
Strange how the world melted away, there on the front steps of Coffman Union. But it was probably due to my desperation for a cosmic intervention.
She said some seemingly clairvoyant shit about my constant tendency to “help” the guys I’m with. She essentially said: STOP IT. Because! Next year, I am going to meet the love of my life. Allegedly. And he’s going to be a super hunk. Who won’t put up with any attempts to fix and/or help him.
So that’s something.
The bouncy houses were a strange touch to the “art fair,” and I couldn’t tell if it was more offensive that they were there, or that students were actually making use of them.
Today’s carrot is the falling temperature, and the fact that I may actually get to wear my new leather jacket in public.
The goddamn little things.
