i really hate computers. i just wrote like 5 paragraphs worth here, and then i got kicked off line.

maybe this is a suggestion that i shouldn't write here anymore, because all my words keep getting thrown away. maybe i'll stick to the more trustworthy medium of paper from now on. humph.

While it's still vivid:
When the air is just right, with a slight breeze running through my humidity-infused hair, and I'm sitting in a plastic patio chair by the pool, with the sounds of the intercoastal waterway lapping gently against the sea wall, it's easy to think, "Damn, it feels good to be a gangsta."

I got my hair cut today. I feel slightly disappointed, as though I half-expected that by chopping off my locks I would suddenly understand my life, and what I want out of it--school, relationships, friendships. But no, of course things don't work that way. Of course me snipping away my tendrils isn't going to infuse my life with new excitement or new meaning.

Right now I'm listening to a John Mayer cd, and whenever I listen to either of his cds it always reminds me of staring up at the bottom of the bunk above me on the train ride to Berlin and from Prague back to Brussels. On those sleeper cars, JM cds provided the warmth that the scratchy train company-provided blankets could not. The instense calm and peaceful, relaxed feeling created when John's fingers strummed the first few chords was magic. Those cds always put the same image in my mind; an image of the sprout smiling down at me, with the warm summer sun shining in his slightly tousled brown hair, his eyes crinkled in delight, his lips slightly chapped, and his love pervading. His fingers distractedly run around my hair; his hand rests gently at the point where my head and neck meet. And I stare back, with unnerving trust and an unadulterated, pure love evident in my piercing gaze.

Wow. The image is fierce in my mind.