081818 rules 1. self-loathing presages urge to give up 2. start before and end after the moment of perfection 3. if something’s burning, get up right away; if not, you can take a shower first or whatever, but only if you really have time and aren’t going to consequently be interrupted or unduly distracted 4. not sure about (3) yet 5. you shouldn’t have bought the weed. you were doing fine without it 6. you shouldn’t have bought the speakers 7. but of the two, mainly you shouldn’t have bought the weed. 8. but of course it’s easy to say that after you’re already bought it 9. you (I mean “me,” not “one”) have to be a teetotaller about your schedule, or it’s not going to work and you’re going to “lose your metabolism” and get weak and drift off. Dorothea was right about it. What can I say; she’s known me for like 80 years. So, here’s the condensed version you’c’n actually work with: 1. self-loathing presages urge to give up 2. start before and end after the moment of perfection 3. stick to the schedule If you can learn that, and learn it good, you can apply it to other endeavours as well. Like your “job,” nigga. You could get “good” at your job, and I don’t mean all the mushy or flighty fun stuff that you’re already good at. I mean the being dependable, solid—*professional.* Weed is like the guy that barges into the room where everyone’s already having a quiet, profound, subtle experience and hollers, “HEY GUYS WE NEED TO START HAVING A PROFOUND EXPERIENCE COME ON I’LL SHOW YOU HOW TO DO IT” and starts banging on shit and trying to force the issue. OK, so that’s his name. Or at least that’s what they call him. His name’s Weed. They call him Weed. Not sure if that’s a first name or a last name or just a nickname that stuck so hard nobody knows his real name, but that’s what they call him. He’s in your dorm. Your, excuse me, your *residence hall.* He fries bacon in his dorm room. He’s the only person you know on the whole floor who has his own room. He used to have a roommate who was seen about for the first few days of the semester, but then disappeared. The roommate was tall-ish, very very fair, I mean I think it would be fair to say pale, and had long wide black full hair with a comic book ink sheen to it. The roommate always curved over a little bit; not a hunch exactly but a comma-shaped curling on himself, like a leaf just starting to embrace the autumn chill. The roommate smiled shyly out of one eye, in the bathroom when you were in there brushing your teeth and he was just finishing up his shower. There were large clumsy bugs bumping around the steel basins and light fixtures; it felt like a campground. The windows were cantilevered open so you could smell moonlight and hear the faint voices of puppies being delighted with the nearness of freedom; pulling at their leashes, nipping at frizbees, grinning and slobbering and getting ready to hump each other’s legs. Just another first day of school, first day of the world. You caught a glimpse of the roommate every now and then after that, slipping quickly crescent moonlike between a graid rainbow of cirrus and stratus. And then--? Did anybody ever ask Weed directly why his roommate disappeared? I mean, of course there’s the usual wild conjectures, the either half-spoken or broadly joke-proclaimed notion of *foul play,* but I mean seriously. You’re not going to ask him, because you’re not really friends with Weed and he intimidates you. Not in a fighty way; not like a ’roid way or nothing, just, his, I don’t know, his energy or something. It’s too up-front and high-midrange, like a metal outdoor PA where a warm, laid back stereo speaker should be. Whatever. You’re just not comfortable going up to him and saying, “Hey man” about anything, really, let alone something that could, all jokes aside, sort of sound like prying or an outright insinuation. So you keep your ears open. You keep your little honeybee dance receptors activated, in case someone happens to reveal the buzz. Why do you even care? It’s not like you knew or “liked” or even actually spoke to Weed’s roommate. It’s not like he’s your “type.” But, I don’t know, fuck off. I’m just curious, OK? OK, whatever dude. Your roommate throws a towel at you and says let’s go swimming. What the hell, why not. You’re still young. You don’t have perfect abs but you don’t have anything to be particularly ashamed of, compared to the aggregate of bellies and tits you’ve seen on campus so far. What the hell. OK, just let me get changed. I’ll wait for you in the atrium says your roommate. Cool. But when you get out there, guess who. Weed. And he’s going with you, apparently. Great. Suddenly the towel slung around your shoulders seems a little more necessary as a defensive layer. You fake a ready smile, and the three of you proceed out the glass doors toward the quad and the network of sidewalks that connects everything to everything else in this little pretend magical electric train world that you live in, for now. You know how lucky you are. Even with douchebags like Weed—hell, maybe especially with douchebags like Weed around, to kind of change up the sonic landscape and give it some texture, some grit, some irony, some absurdity. It’s like a sitcom, remember those? You live in a school! Think about that. You’re like a puppy in a basket that’s way bigger on the inside than on the outside. You know that’s going to change. You know it’s not going to be like this forever. You’re smart that way. You can see a little farther out than some of these characters. But still, it’s fun. You’re having fun. Life’s fun. Hold on to that, OK? You don’t need me to tell you this, but I can’t help it. Enjoy. These are golden moments, you know? I know you know. You smile at me and squeeze my hand and say I know, grandpa. I know. I love you. I disappear. I’ll see you later though.