January 9th, 1992
I’m in a good mood. I’ve actually been a good mood since I got back from winter break. Shocking, I know. People visited our room and I felt like I had friends. I still dislike (notice the omittance of the word HATE–my mother would be oh-so-proud of me) the same things about this school that I’ve written about a bizillion times but I’m trying to focus on good things.
Good: I’ve got normal friends around whom I don’t have to act all fakey RAH RAH Richmond queer.
Less good than not terrible: My neighbors I hate (Hey, you can’t build Rme in a day, people) have been nice to us. Actually, that’s stretching the truth. They’ve been nice to Katy. I still get the death stares. They complimented Katy’s sweater today. I am now paranoid that it’s all part of a set-up to kill me in my sleep. They figure that if they can get in on Katy’s good side it’ll be a cinch to hook up a crude irrigation system leading hoses from the water pipes from the hall right into our room. As Biology majors, my neighbors know that drowning, not fire, is the most painful way to die.
Bitches.
I was watching TV today when one of those 1-800-HOT-BABE type commercials came on. The announcer was like, “Dial 1-800-HOT-BLON for blondes. And there was a different number for each of the following categories: Blonde, Black, Big, and Other.
I loved how all women who were not Blond, Black or Big fell into the smorgasbord category of Other. Maybe it’s for the undiscriminating phone sex shopper, he who is satisfied with sampling the lefovers.
