where they smoked and talked about the disappearing ground

It's time for the last night of Major Modern 20th Century Writers and Eco Literature so I have put on a black dress and the Blessed Virgin bracelet which I purchased at the 99 cent store while walking down Graham Avenue.
I talked to both my mother and father on the phone, neither of which are concerned of the Swine Flu. I explained to them that any paranoia I feel stems from them taking to see the movie "Outbreak" or whatever it was called in the theatre when I was eight. I told my mother that I imagine it to be just like The Stand which we read together in bed when we first moved to Florida. She corrects me and asks about the books I read now expecting me to be smarter than some post-apocalyptic world made up by Stephen King, but Mommy, we read The Plague this semester too.

Three more days of finals and then I will exist, maybe half exist. Pick out summer classes. Read Emily Post's Etiquette in it's entirety. Time travel. The usual summer goals.

I wish the rain would stop. This type of weather must be confusing for everyone. Everyone speaking in code and giving themselves fake names like New York City is all brand new. I am tired of monologues delivered by nineteen year olds, they arent the kind I like. Everyone acts like it's all for the very first time, and hell, I guess maybe for them it is.

My roommate moved out so the apartment is starting to look progressively gorgeous. There are fresh flowers. There is no clutter. No compulsive hoarding. There is no blown up moose on the wall. There is no pirate flag hanging from the ceiling. She said to me with al sincerity "I didn't sign up to live in OCD house," and instead of telling her that she acts this way because nothing bad has actually ever happened to her in life, I figured that it was all relative and nodded. I helped her load the mattress into the Uhaul. There were no hugs good-bye. Maybe I'm afraid of germs.

Did I tell you I named my banjo Tea Cake? Maybe not. It was the only name that seemed reasonable. Alex understood when I told him all about Janie and rabies and how it happened so fast. He read the book already, but I like when someone will still let me talk about it.

This has been my fatal flaw as a literature mature, I like to talk about it, I don't necessarily like when people talk about. I like to think about it but I don't want to rip apart every word. I think so many of those words were accidents and then I accidentally apply them to myself but we are supposed to sit there for hours and we are supposed to say why the author chose "frugal" instead of "cheap" we are supposed to write a twelve page paper on a paragraph for a professor who may act like it's math. Like there's a right answer, a cheat sheet, something more than the high school kids stole from spark notes.

For class we are supposed to bring a dish from one of our favorite countries but I can't imagine.

I like speaking in code. I like talking to Jordan or Jackson. Everyone took over and all of their names start with "J". Someone jokes that since I never picked a name I could make it "Janiela" and I think that would be fine Daniela Janiela Scrima. Daniela Janiela Tupac Shakur Scrima. Third person, first person, pronouns, last classes. Someone trying to explain semi-colons again like maybe this time it will click.

I moved the record player into the living room. I put real film in the camera. I listened to all the voice mails. I'll stay up tonight, maybe all night writing a paper with footnotes and endnotes. I am so tired that the idea seems refreshing.