...replace bread with blond head; then hit...

Walking home to an ex-boyfriend in front of the house, ask me if I understand. My roommate says I don't own the street. This is me being irrational, but as far as he is concerned, I do own this street. Not only do I own it, but I own the air around it. Also, that patch of half-frozen ground in front of the house (and accompanying air) that the girl was standing on. Yes I have been civil of late, but only when I have had somewhat anticipation of the possibility of a run-in (i.e. being on campus) and am thus prepared and in my element. But having already had a shitty day, and no anticipation, forget it.

I stormed inside, slammed the door - god help the boy if he saw me now, because there could have been no illusion of grownup. Not that he's calling me anyway. But still. So yes, slammed the door. Roommates were having batting practise with loaves of bread. I could have invented my own batting practise targets at this point.

Blaaaah. Called Rachel, spoke of shoes. Was made momentarily happy, or at least distracted anyway. Will read more Brian Morton, maybe some poetry because I haven't read poetry in so long. Will not, in fact, read anthropology tonight (despite having vowed to Rachel that I would). Sleep, wake, shower, meeting, study, study, class, study, tutorial, work, study, class, fire ceremony, and sleep tomorrow.