gunslinger

So, I still haven’t found a place to live for the fall. I had signed up to take Spanish in the summer, but the day before classes started I got a phone call saying the class was cancelled.
It was the only Spanish class being offered.
I had planned my whole summer around finishing my last leg of the stupid language requirement, and now I’m going to have to squeeze it into my fall schedule. I don’t even know if I can graduate this year. I really wanted to graduate before the economy gets worse.

I went to the store and everyone in the store was paired up in couples. The people behind me were talking about how great marriage was to their friends who just got married. I had to listen to their wonderful life story until it was my turn to pay. Everyone was hand in hand—it was really sickening.
I stopped at the library to pick up some of their free magazines, and one was a Time Magazine. I thought it would help me get my mind of my lack of love. I get home, and I turn off the TV (all love stories, no doubt). I turn to my magazine.
The whole magazine was dedicated to love and stories of love.
This is just cruel.

There is so much I want to write, but I cannot because I constantly have people looking over my shoulder.

I went to the library, but there weren’t any open computers. I’m at the family house, and the only computer with internet is in the common room, and there is always someone needing to use it since we don’t have money for other things. So, as I use the computer my sister is sitting a few feet away waiting for her turn.

The library is a two hour drive, and I feel bad that I couldn’t spend time looking at the sites or forums that I wanted to check up on because there were no open computers.

People here are always looking at what I’m looking at, and then they press their faces into my space and inquire about everything that I’m looking at. Then I have to question every site I want to look at and wonder what stupid questions they’re going to ask me about the site.

Family.

I hate moving from one bad situation to another. I still don't have my own bathroom or air-conditioning, but at least I’m not paying for it.

I know it’s worse over there. Although, I think next semester will be better. I have fewer journalism classes, which means I don’t have to be around those nefarious journalism students as much.

It’s weird to think that the business students would be the ones who are sweet and down to earth, while the journalism students are shallow, callous and high schoolish. (Yeah, I know that isn’t a word, but it should be).

I mean, the business students are all about running the show and making money, while the journalism students are supposed to be the ones in love with ideas and striving for justice—but those clichés couldn’t be farther from the truth. The business students would give you their last dollar if they thought you were hungry and the journalism students would keep driving if they hit you with their car. I know because it was a conversation I over heard two rich blonde girls discussing in my PR class.

It was a nice, strong house. I think I lived there once upon a time. Margarita and her friends were going around bullying people, and I would have no part of it.

There was a dog shelter not to far away, and I was going to adopt a dog before all of this happened.

A girl in a green, flowing fairy-like dress was asking for Margarita. She wanted to know why they were being mean to her brother. I look a picture of the girl because she looked so surreal. No one should be so beautiful. It wasn't fair to the rest of us.

I couldn’t answer for Maggie because no one knew why she changed. In high school, Margarita was somewhat of a nerd, and everyone liked her. Then one day she decided that she was going to morph into a tough girl, but only used tough girl stereotypes she’d stolen from TV. Her closest friends were ones that did cocaine and slept with every guy they met. I’m not sure how Maggie figured these losers were “cool” but logic was lost on this girl.

The sky turned black and the clouds hung low. I saw it all before.
“Where have you been?” Margarita asked.
“Look what you and your friends have done,” I said looking to the sky. Someone had gotten revenge for Margarita’s ways, only we were all going to pay for it.

Margarita went into the poorly build garage where her friends were smoking weed before heading out to a restaurant. I went outside to capture the moment on film. Not them smoking, but the retaliation.

There was an explosion in the sky—just like I had seen in my dream. Two balls of fire pulled away from each other in a V shape. I hit the record button on my camera and held it steady. Then shards from the explosion in the sky started to strike the ground. I ran inside the house and looked for the strongest part of the structure, which was between a door frame. The shards were the size of chairs and computers. Screams came from everywhere. It was all Margarita’s fault. I wondered more about the poor dog at the pound than Margarita’s friends in the gargage. I wish I had been somewhere better, like under a bridge.

I never appreciated my family until I escaped from the lunatics at my college.

This isn’t a glorious place by any means, but at least I saw a cute baby today. The first time I started noticing the ugly babies, I thought I was losing my mind. All the people in or around my college had the ugliest babies imaginable. In that land of nightmares, even the children look like hideous monsters.

The more days I’m away, the more I feel it was all a bad dream: the shallow sorority girls, the journalism student with no morals and the evil administration.