Day One-Hundred Fourteen

It's remarkable.

Maybe it wasn't just an excuse.

Perhaps there is some ontological connection between school work and cigarettes; like Jesuits and Scotch; hippies and patchouli; tacos and cheese. Could it be that all this time, as I fought with myself and my wife, that should have been smoking cigarettes all along?

If not, then why am I having so much difficulty getting myself through the obviously enjoyable read, Exceptional Learners: Introduction to Special Education? I figured I would fly through that shit like I did Lemon by Lawrence Krauser and, before that, The Convalescent, by Jessica Anthony - both published by McSweeneys.

Maybe I sensed the end of my literary freedom with my looming return to academic life (once again). One of my prerequisites the BCTR is enrollment and completion of an introduction to special education course; and my course through the University of Phoenix has begun.

Mind you, it is only one class, and it will be done in three weeks, and the working isn't unbearable - even though it is quite substantial - but, once again, I am under the thumb of an instructor who tells me what to read, how much, and by when. Fuck, I hate textbooks. There has to be a better way to relay this information to me.

But then again, I did have to read H.D. (Hilda Doolittle) in grad. school...

Uncommon denominator: cigarettes.

So just as a decide, 'Today is the day. I have to get my groove back; and then go to Safeway!', I sit down at my computer, put iTunes on random, and get this:

...like an injection, directly in my veins. I feel all my anxiety melt into the hard wooden chair on which I rest, the chair now transformed into a plush leisure chair, and I breathe in, and I breathe out, and it is gone. So simple. I almost forgot. I can read just fine, thank you.

And now, I feel like doing this:

which I will be doing out the door...especially the Camel walk, motherfucker! Just to spite my former frienemy...