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the colours in your head


As an addendum to the previous post, I must add that there was a weird sequence of events regarding the Writer over the past 24 hours. Yesterday, I stayed up until 7 am talking to him, went to sleep, then had to go meet him to pick up theatre tickets (we went to the Jazz Philharmonic... 'twas amazing, and proved conclusively that there can never be a big band show without them playing "Georgia on my mind") Being tired, I begged off staying up and went and cuddled up in my hard, narrow bed. Five minutes in to reading trashy fantasy, my sketchy neighbour calls me up and says he needs to talk to me RIGHT NOW. I go over, he warns me to stay away from the Writer because he's the last thing I need in my life right now, and I need to stay on task and study and such. I point out that I study every day, but then he starts going on about how the Writer is insidious and unwillingly malevolent. He then starts telling me I'm being irresponsible about my studies (somehow managing to overlook my three hours of studies outside of class I do a day) and how I need to hang out with the nice American girls my age (by which he means the ditzy bigtitted Republican-'cuz-daddy-is blondes who he slavers over) and so we get into a big fight about that and I take it as my excuse to return to bed.

Lying there, though, I start thinking, and realise that ties do need to be cut a little.

This morning, I walk to the bus stop, and who should be there, drunk from going out the night before, but the Writer. Bear in mind that he doesn't go to class anymore, so this is a rather odd appearance that he has made. He comes upon me sitting on the curb, and talks until I go onto the bus. He says something about the fact that he's honoured that I have chosen to bestow my friendship upon him and that he's glad that he will have my company every evening until I leave.


When was that agreed upon?


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