g'mornin

Car horns sound and shoes scuff the pavement and people shout and life stays in motion as i slip under the scratchy grey blanket and stare up at my tiny barred window in this rented room. Gently placing my computer over my growling stomach, i let my hunger and the hardrive fans battle it out, winner determines my next set of actions. something is looming, hovering, dangling above me like a miny mobile of potential responsibility. I'm surprisingly soothed, as a baby should be, to the twisting and turning of test dates, flight dates, conversation dates, inscription dates. They dance to the car horns and the scuffing of shoes and the shouting and the rush of life through this city. Huddled deeper now in a pile of blankets, i think i should get dressed, join the honking and scuffing and shouting. And i would too if it were not for the unexpected hardrive fan victory, i hear it hum violently in celebration as my stomach growls the occasional whine of a sore loser.

i reach into my pocket of my jeans spawled like a murder scene from last night's debauchery. My phone pops out along with a crumpled peice of pink paper, the tail ends of girlish curling handwriting peeks out from the corner and i'm transported back into that eternal drunk-bitch conversation. its always the same, this one may wear the long droopy mc hammer pants of porteña style, but its got the same build, the same animated insides. "y me llamás? porque me gustás mucho! y tenemos que salir juntas, ay que suerte que nos encontramos acá, vamos a ser amigas, no? así que me llamás!" and theres shoulder pushing and hair tossing and we both flit off (because flitting is absolutely necessary in times like these) to other ends of the bar. I cant figure out why this number, with its curly-q's and light pink backing, exhausts me so, still shouting at me from across a noisy bar. Pull blankets tighter and twist to let the remnants of alcohol drain down my system. My stomach starts to growl with newly revived passion, and though i turn up the volume on my speakers to drown out reality with a catchy french tune, the mobile of to-dos whips rapidly around my head and the honking and scuffing and shouting and growling all wag their fingers and nag, "get the fuck up".