Goddam right it's a beautiful day

^ That's a line from the song I liked best on the Eels CD that SJ and I listened to a few days ago. I don't know much else about the CD or the song, but it made me happy. Moving on:

MY ROOMMATE IS EVIL!

She got out of the shower around nine o'clock (which happens to be the time our CSci class starts) after sitting around for an hour or something. This should give some indication of her lethargy, which should make it less surprising that she said of our class, "We should skip it!"

Did I answer, "No! Sarah, we mustn't!" No. I said, "Well ... okay."

It's not just apathy, it's violent apathy. We're adamant about how much we don't--can't--care about anything. Violent apathy has never set in so early in the semester as it has for Sarah and I now.

And though the overall theme may still be violent apathy--like me vehemently ignoring my need to do laundry--I've been experiencing a bout of silliness. But there's so much to be happy about!

• It's another sunny, gorgeous day outside.
• I came back to my apartment to the scent of delicious caramel creme coffee that Alyssa offered to share with me.
• I get to go to Mankato this weekend and see Darren and Ali and Matthew.
• After the class I actually went to today, a lady in it came up to me and said, "Do you want some more Tom Robbins to read?" At first I was really confused. How does she know I've been into him recently?
  
  So I said, "You have some?" and she named off a couple of titles I immedately forgot because I was still confused. Then I remembered. Duh, Holly, you wrote a review of one of his books for the school paper last week. "Sure, I'd like that," I said.
  
  "Okay, I'll bring them on Thursday," she said. I smiled. "I really liked the article you wrote," she added as we were leaving. That made me smile more.
  
  And the odd part is, another girl heard that, and complimented me as well. I remember her saying it was really engaging, because that amazed me. I spoke of my reluctance to write a book review, since I don't think I have anything to say. She assured me that it was well-written and really made her want to read the book. I thought that about the best thing anybody could say. And I was really impressed that something I'd already forgotten about (even though I only wrote it a week ago and the paper came out on Thursday) was mentioned to me so flatteringly by other people.

Tom Robbins again

This sentence is made of lead (and a sentence of lead gives a reader an entirely different sensation from one made of magnesium). This sentence is is made of yak wool. This sentence is made of sunlight and plums. This sentence is made of ice. This sentence is made from the blood of the poet. This sentence was made in Japan. This sentence glows in the dark. This sentence was born with a caul. This sentence has a crush on Norman Mailer. This sentence is a wino and doesn't care who knows it. Like many italic sentences, this one has Mafia connections. This sentence is a double Cancer with Pisces rising. This sentence lost its mind searching for the perfect paragraph. This sentence refuses to be diagramed. This sentence ran off with an adverb clause. This sentence is 100 percent organic; it will not retain a facsimile of freshness like those sentences of Homer, Shakespeare, Goethe et al., which are loaded with preservatives. This sentence leaks. This sentence doesn't look Jewish ... This sentence has accepted Jesus Christ as its personal savior. This sentence once spit in a book reviewer's eye. This sentence can do the funky chicken. This sentence has seen to much and forgotten too little. This sentence is called "Speedoo" but its real name is Mr. Earl. This sentence may be pregannt, it missed its period This sentence suffered a split infinitive--and survived. If this sentence had been a snake you'd have bitten it. This sentence went to jail with Clifford Irving. This sentence went to Woodstock. And this little sentence went wee wee wee all the way home. This sentence is proud to be a part of the team here at Even Cowgirls Get the Blues. This sentence is rather confounded by the whole damn thing.

Adventures at TMC

Jenn and I went to TMC (for overpriced, slightly warmer versions of the food we get at PFM) this evening. As we're walking in, we see a little boy sitting on the floor in the middle of the doorway. He's wearing a red bicycle helmet and rearranging things in his backpack. "Okay, take the sweatshirt out ... " we hear him say to himself as we walk past. We laugh, gently.

We order food, we sit down, and she says, "I wonder if he's a child savant. We should go ask him."

"Now?" I ask. That sounds dumb. Besides, I'm eating!

"Yeah, now."

I am reluctant. "Why?" Obviously I'm trying to distract her.

"Because I've always wanted to meet one!" she says. "I think that would be so cool. Wouldn't it?"

I think about it for a second, decide the idea of a child savant seemed reasonably cool, and nod. "But you don't even like kids," I point out. It's true. If anything, it's an understatement. Jenn doesn't like kids like Bill O'Reilly doesn't like liberals.

"I know," she says, "but I'd like a child savant. Unless they were smarter than me." I smile noncommitally. "It's my goal in life to meet a child savant." Later: "See, I bet he's a child savant; he's reading a book and highlighting stuff."

"And he's intelligent enough to wear a bicycle helmet," I point out.

"Or his parents are intelligent enough to make him!" she says. "I should go ask him if he's a child savant. But what if he wasn't; I'd be embarrased ... Well, what if he was? I'd probably still be embarrassed."

She looks over every four seconds to see if her food is ready, which gives me something about which to make fun of her. I tell her the cottage cheese she's so excited about eating looks like a bowl of snot to me. We talk about homework and Eddie Izzard. Life goes on.

Then, while dragging another fry through ketchup, I notice an imposter. It is the tomato I've carelessly thrown off my burger. Tomatoes are evil! "Get away from my ketchup, stupid tomato!" I say, tossing it out of the way. The irony of what I just said isn't lost on me; I have to smile.

Jenn, curiously, has not yet pointed out the incongruity of me liking ketchup but not tomatoes. The reason for this is made clear soon enough, though, as she blurts out, "I'd laugh at that--but--I'm dying! I tried to swallow a french fry whole!" She speaks with slight amazement, as if this notion awes even she herself. I laugh at her not being able to laugh at me for my own ridiculosity.

Then she looks over and says, "Oh, he's not a child savant after all." It takes me a second to catch up, but how could I forget about the child savant? "He just shook up his Dr. Pepper and [here she made sucking sounds to demonstrate] sucked like half of it down. Obviously no child savant would suck down half his pop at once."

We gather the debris of our meal, put it all where it belongs, and leave.