Right foot, left foot

Today was also good. Doable and promising.
I’m very excited that I get to do a project on Shirley Jackson for English Lit. She is one of my favourites. I wonder if I can borrow all those novels from Herbert’ Ouiseau. Actually I should just buy up the ones I don’t have. “The Road Through The Wall” is really hard to find though. It was out of print for years.
There’s just nothing like a good drunken, schizoid, psychic writer, with the gimlet eye to pierce right through the travesties of suburbia and class.

There certainly is a vast range of folk out there. (School). There are the children. There are the large, overgrown children. There are the children (particularly female) who look like small versions of their future adult selves. There are the boys who are just perpetually teetering in that long, odd twilight before they actually become men. There are the adults who have the slightly hunted, driven look of those who need or want to become something other than what they currently identify as. (I believe I resemble that remark.) There's more, I'll catalogue them eventually.
Then there is that other legendary college and university institution, the pussy patrol. My god, it’s like cruising Cass corridor in the old days. The place is just seething with pheromones. Now, I think I potentially get why some teachers “love” teaching.
Example 1: I’m slogging down the hallway to the reading center, dragging my 30 pounds of books behind, wending in and out of the sticky clusters of youths, I dodge around 2 people glued to the floor, and squeeze past a tall, skinny possibly Arabic hip hopper. Backwards baseball cap, baggies, the usual bit. He gives me the once over and the “ How you dooin’?”. I’m thinkin’ “are you KIDDING me?”
Example 2. Then there was the long searching stare from Dungeon Master, lord of the gaming table of the land of cafeteria. Until his girl came up and essentially peed on him, just to make it all perfectly clear. The Dungeon Master looks a little less masterly when blushing guiltily.
I guess it’s OK, it’s been quite some time since I’ve been hit on by anyone other than the Coke delivery driver, or the milkman. Just sniffing up all that sexizone is probably good for this old, jaded heart.