I made friends with this girl, Maria, when it turned out I was in every single one of her classes in the spring semester. Bear in mind that she was only in half of my classes, since I was taking twice the credit hours, but at any rate we got to know each other pretty well and became decent friends. Then, I left for three months with no word and came back as if nothing happened.

Unlike most of my friends, all of whom I was consciously avoiding all summer, I felt bad about ignoring Maria. Not bad enough to call her, mind you, but bad enough that she was one of the first three I got ahold of when I came home.

It took me four years, but I’m finally a senior. As such, I’m required by law to take the most worthless class in the history of education, senior seminar. This is a class where a disparate group of students, heading toward the end of their undergraduate educations, gather together to share their feelings about life, love, and future unemployment, and do art projects that even a third-grader would wrinkle his or her nose at because they’re so beyond fingerpainting.

Today, Qween showed up to class. Nobody was exactly rejoicing. She blamed last week’s snafu entirely on people who weren’t her, which just pissed me off.

During class, we broke into three groups, read a poem, and drew pictures or created “skits” about what we thought the poem meant.

Later on, Qween got (and took) a cell phone call in class. I imagine it was second grade calling, wanting its assignment back.

I hate this class.

While I enjoy writing, the main issue in reading my writing is that I just think it’s boring. Assuming it’s not an early draft (which I almost always hate), I rarely have any particular dislike of the characters, the story, or any of that shit; I mostly just find it drab and styleless, because it’s my style, and my style is just a slipshod homogeny of writing I enjoy and/or respect, so I’m constantly reading my work and thinking, “This isn’t terrible, but John Kennedy Toole would have made it funny.”

My cell phone is a goddamn piece of shit, as almost everyone who calls me will attest (mostly because I say, “Goddamn this piece of shit—can I call you back?”), so I decided to get a new one. I walked up to the Cingular store in town and was helped by a strange man who seemed to be looking above my head every time he talked to me.

While I was there, I ran into an old, old, old, old, old, old friend. And things got weird for me.

As I’ve stated, mostly in the form of thanks to THE LORD, I have no classes with Owen this semester. Both of my screenwriting classes this semester feature mostly the same people I was with last semester, except without Owen. The main difference: classes are now enjoyable. Except for the portfolio review class, but that’s a whole other thang…

WARNING: This entire blog entry will go into horrible details about my groin-related medical problems. If you enjoy laughing at my life, and I know you all do, please continue reading. However, the content of this particular entry may shock and educate you with its frank depiction of the human body at its absolute worst.

Back when the Super-Hot Pot-Head and I were on speaking terms (i.e., any time before February), she suggested that we team up. Her longtime boyfriend was apparently quite the director, I was the writer, and she was, I dunno, hair and make-up or something. Actually, she would have been the producer; I’m just not sure what all she would have done in that capacity. Doesn’t matter since it never amounted to anything more than idle conversation.

Lucy’s back online, so for the past two days we’ve been spending hours playing this stupid online Trivial Pursuit game. Here’s the problem: unless we do TV or Silver Screen, she wins. And she doesn’t just win: she whips my ass. The closest I came to winning was getting five questions right (out of seven), but I got the following question wrong (and she swooped down for the win):

Science & Nature: Which planet is closest to the Earth?

A. Venus

B. Jupiter

C. Mars

D. Pluto

That’s right, I am rock stupid. And she is smarter than me. And it makes me feel pathetic. It also makes me feel bad that she’s working at Lowe’s instead of putting her smarts to use doing something productive, like running a numbers house on the south side.

Update: I almost forgot that this game also yielded this hilarious exchange:

(23:43:40) Lucy: val may be watching and/or playing, don’t say anything stupid

(23:43:54) Me: like what?!

(23:44:02) Lucy: i don’t know

(23:44:05) Me: “i hope your friend val will have sex with me”?

(23:44:07) Lucy: don’t make fun of her