Reflections, Old and New
I've just been jumping through Amazon, looking at a couple of the books that I read when I was in elementary and middle school. Some of it was real rubbish, or at least, inappropriate for me to have read. Of course, this is all twenty-twenty hindsight; and to be honest, some of what I read when I was a kid was really good stuff. For example, I read a bunch of the Hardy Boys mysteries. That was excellent stuff.
That's one of the things I look forward to doing once I've graduated from college: reading. As far as I can tell from my records (which you wankers can't see, or else you'd track me down like the crazed fans that you are, especially Harley!), I've read no more than thirty books in the last five years. Five years! That's six books a year! Scarcely one book every two months, and most of that in the Summer, and nine of them directly or indirectly read for school. That's nonsense, and though it's unfortunate to say, my real scholarship won't start until after school's done. I'm even looking forward to having time for research.
I've also been reflecting on what went wrong in my relationship with the Mirror; I've got six more hours to reflect on it, then I'm done. I noted my conclusion last night, but failed to explain my nomenclature. I think that the Mirror developed a condition that I've come to refer to as PGS. What does "PGS" stand for, you ask? It's simple. Party Girl Syndrome.
At the end of December, the Mirror moved up to London and took a job as a nanny for a family with two young boys. It's the first time she's lived away from home. I found out yesterday when I was on the phone with her that, since our breakup on 19th February, she's cropped off a lot of her hair, dyed some of it brown, but added bright red streaks to it. She's also pierced her nose; if there's one turn-off for this Super Fly, it's a pierced nose.
I've seen PGS while I've been at university. A girl (or a guy) gets away from their parents for the first time, they have enough money to be comfortable, and relative freedom and autonomy. That's why you have eighteen year old girls getting tattoos. That's why you have eighteen year old girls getting piss steaming drunk and getting laid for the first time at some Pabst-saturated frat orgy.
The Mirror's got a decent paycheck, twelve hours a day to herself (although eight of those are spent sleeping), weekends off, and near-total freedom from her folks. And me? I was six or seven thousand miles away. Thus, the Mirror developed a bad case of PGS.
Was that the only reason for our breakup? Nope. There were a lot of reasons; and there were a lot of reasons why we should have given it another shot. Unfortunately, it's become very clear that she's not going to go for that. Yesterday she used that dreaded phrase that you hate to hear after you've made a last ditch investment in a dying romance: "This feels more and more like a friendship."
It's all bollocks, folks; but tomorrow, it's a whole new ballgame. I've got eleven weeks until I hit the ground running.
"'Cause what you leave behind, you don't miss anyway."
That's one of the things I look forward to doing once I've graduated from college: reading. As far as I can tell from my records (which you wankers can't see, or else you'd track me down like the crazed fans that you are, especially Harley!), I've read no more than thirty books in the last five years. Five years! That's six books a year! Scarcely one book every two months, and most of that in the Summer, and nine of them directly or indirectly read for school. That's nonsense, and though it's unfortunate to say, my real scholarship won't start until after school's done. I'm even looking forward to having time for research.
I've also been reflecting on what went wrong in my relationship with the Mirror; I've got six more hours to reflect on it, then I'm done. I noted my conclusion last night, but failed to explain my nomenclature. I think that the Mirror developed a condition that I've come to refer to as PGS. What does "PGS" stand for, you ask? It's simple. Party Girl Syndrome.
At the end of December, the Mirror moved up to London and took a job as a nanny for a family with two young boys. It's the first time she's lived away from home. I found out yesterday when I was on the phone with her that, since our breakup on 19th February, she's cropped off a lot of her hair, dyed some of it brown, but added bright red streaks to it. She's also pierced her nose; if there's one turn-off for this Super Fly, it's a pierced nose.
I've seen PGS while I've been at university. A girl (or a guy) gets away from their parents for the first time, they have enough money to be comfortable, and relative freedom and autonomy. That's why you have eighteen year old girls getting tattoos. That's why you have eighteen year old girls getting piss steaming drunk and getting laid for the first time at some Pabst-saturated frat orgy.
The Mirror's got a decent paycheck, twelve hours a day to herself (although eight of those are spent sleeping), weekends off, and near-total freedom from her folks. And me? I was six or seven thousand miles away. Thus, the Mirror developed a bad case of PGS.
Was that the only reason for our breakup? Nope. There were a lot of reasons; and there were a lot of reasons why we should have given it another shot. Unfortunately, it's become very clear that she's not going to go for that. Yesterday she used that dreaded phrase that you hate to hear after you've made a last ditch investment in a dying romance: "This feels more and more like a friendship."
It's all bollocks, folks; but tomorrow, it's a whole new ballgame. I've got eleven weeks until I hit the ground running.
"'Cause what you leave behind, you don't miss anyway."
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