Wednesday, March 24, 2010

I Just Can't Get You Outta My Head

I got my first ever "B" as a graduate student. There are plenty of contextualizing reasons/excuses why, but I don't really care. I got a "B" and part of me is proud of this. At least, the part of me that realizes I could have gotten an "A"--or even an "A-"--if I had done the work in a particular way towards a particular end. But I _chose_ not to. I said to J., The thing that sucks about this paper is that I know the paper this prof. wants to read is one I don't want to write. And so I decided to write the paper I wanted to write, and not the one he wanted to read. And I got a "B," which must be the most cynical grade ever, considering ample participation, no incomplete assignments, and only one missed class. But it was a defiantly missed class--one I refused to attend on principle. No doubt my grade was a result of an equally principled decision.
Regardless, I'm not upset--it doesn't hurt my standing in the dept., nor does it nullify the course-work. It was just a dick thing to do, and not very surprising at that: he is a tool.
In the mean time, I await my other grades. I'm less nervous about them, though. I feel confident about the work I did.
Tonight I will see a friend's apartment. I was talking to the Vegan and he said something I was afraid of: "It's not like I love Boystown, but you miss it when you leave it--I was getting shot at, constantly sneered at, and there was nothing around." So I'm looking at a 2 bedroom space for $800 a month in Boystown that my friend has till May, which I may be able to take over if I look very closely at expenses. A study, a bedroom, a place to host guests... It could be nice. And I think that if I need to, I could (maybe) do a (gay) roommate.
Which is to say, I doubt J. will be up for moving in with me--despite my desire to live with him. It will probably be too much for him, and I think he likes the sense of freedom that having "MY place" and "YOUR place" implies. Immutable boundaries that can be enforced like no-fly-zones should they need to be. I understand that. I'm not entirely sure I don't have the same desire, too.
But he is willing to leave his father's phone plan and join mine. Which I think is something--not a lease, but something like it. A formal piece of paper that connects him to me in this world. Even if it is a Verizon cellphone bill. For phones we will largely use to talk to one another.
I'm in the Center again because the interwebz I pirate are down. It's funny to see how things happen here--the constant movement, very formal, very official: name badges, walkie-talkies. All of that.
Anyway, I'm gonna go home, get ready for work, go to work, work, finish work, read a book for a bit, and get picked up by this boy and see his apartment. I'm nervous about moving. I said to the Vegan, "Even though I don't avail myself of the local amenities Boystown has to offer, I like being around other fags." Maybe if I get this smartphone with J. I'll have to put my money where my mouth is, and rely on Grinder for my sense of community. Only if I move away. Which I want to do less and less...
In other news, I'm excited about meeting up with the Writer on Friday, despite his animosity, which I always found somewhat endearing and even a bit charming. Fag Jesus had to hear all about it the other night and it was funny when he interrupted me to let me know he can imagine, in each ear, the two of us bitching about one another. I blushed in mild embarrassment.
Last night was spent with my Stoic philosopher queen friend, and she (a real bio-woman--a bionic woman?) had a grand time. We talked Freud and James and Goethe and Billy Shakes and all was well. Though some guy followed me back from the bus stop where I dropped her off yelling, "Sir!" "Sir!" "Excuse me, Sir!" and I ignored him and kept walking until I heard his feet fall in the rhythm of a run, and sensing that I wasn't going to make it to Halstead before he reached me, I spun around, and said, "Yes?!" in the most no-nonsense tone I could muster, and when he realized he couldn't clock me over the head and take my money he mumbled a "God bless..." (to which I said, "You wish") and retreated back into the shadows of the alley from which he'd emerged suddenly, so eager and hopeful to score my wallet. Motherfucker. Scared the shit out of me.

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