The suite is quiet, an anomaly if on any other day, but it is a saturday after all, and the saturday norm is to don a short dress, wear some impossible heels, and ‘get yourself wasted’, as most people would like to characterize college life. I have not fallen into the endless circle of drink, drunk, hangover yet, and I’m thinking… $80 for a fake ID, $5-8 for a beer, $xxx for the dresses, and a lifetime ruined posture from the heels. Sense turns you into the only person in the suite, possibly on the whole floor, but it’s okay. I relish this rare silence. I write this while chewing on the strawberry pockys I got from the japanese convenience store. It is one of the things that makes me skip on the cobblestone floors of Boston, the familiar taste of artificial strawberries on a stick.
Yet, a part of me avoids the familiarity, like though the Penang restaurant is but a block away, I have only stepped in to it once; like my ongoing search for the leather boots; the sexy trench; like buying the vest I have on my body; like the slight accent that comes out naturally. There’s one part of me that wants to fit into Boston and feel at home. wants to know what to do, speak without hesitating. i want to have conversations outside of my room, want to remember how to make friends.
Now I am enveloped in the silence of my room. Echoes of trance from the club halfway down the block. Clicks on the keyboard. I’m okay with just opening my textbooks, I’m okay.
