"Senior Week"

This admixture of cheap drinks and

cheap nostalgia

isn't doing it for me,

and all too often i'm finding myself alone in bookstores in gentrified shells of commodity fetishism in distribution centers for the sugar caffeine industrial complex in darkend rooms with images of empire flickering in lightning before my eyes in bathtubs which stink of failure

dreading another lost year, because i've had so many here.

I remember dreading what this place would do to me and yearning for escape and now i know that there is none and that Yale is done with me.

Your email schedules exclamation points and reminders exclude me from the collectivity they imagine. I am going home to New York not to gentrify but to mourn and lock myself in patterns of seclusion and resentment and i don't think i'm ever going to find a job and i just want out and i'm playing back the chaos of this morning and my stupid shit accumulated over the last year and i just want it to fucking end, but it doesn't work like that. I will not enjoy the martini bar glitz and wild rides along amsterdam in chelsea in what you have turned the east village into towards which you lean with anticipation because my city will forever be torn between an upper west side which no longer exists (if it ever did) and a trail of subterranean memories emerging at Dyckman and soaring out to Two hundred and forty-sixth's street's grassy hills and fallen trees coated in poison oak. Look out Rolly.

I'd conclude the mental masturbation here but we've all been doing it for four years so why stop now and i think i learned today staring into the faces of angry principals testosterone crazed coaches and disappointed students that i have no fucking idea how to organize and i now understand alcohol and i'm stressed as fuck.

i want my life back i want my life back hey hey hey right now but it ain't gonna happen and i'm getting out of thsi fucking computer lab.