I shifted my weight around on my bed, trying to convince my subconscious brain to let me get back behind the wheel of my actions, and despite a valiant fight from my leaden limbs I emerge victorious. I rear my eyelids back as far over the balls of my eyes as far as whatever muscles that work your eyelids will take them, so as to say, "alright assholes, wide awake, we're actually doing this now."
Exhausted from the strenuous internal battle, I let my head fall back on my pillow, my eyes not daring to lower themselves any. Day 3. Here we g'oh shit. What time is it?
For a brief moment I allow my eyelids to close. Breathe in, breathe out. I turn over and grab my phone. 8:34. Ha. And here I was worried. It explains why my alarm clock hasn't gone off yet. After using a few synapses to offer a very brief mental apology to my eyelids, I allow them to close again There it is. Alarm clock fires away. I turn over to shut it up, and climb out of my lofted bed, embarrassingly impressed with my 3-day on-time streak.
It's a new year. Yeah. That's for damn sure. Hopefully I can keep this up. Habituate myself. Timely Eliot. That's what they'll call me. Damn these showers. I'm sitting here waiting for a decent shower (criteria: hot water, fair amount of water pressure) to open up, and of there it is, dick number one. The showers at my dorm suck. No median between the shower room and actual shower, there's no place to put clothes if you want to keep them dry, and your shower hook is outside your shower. I'm in for a ton of dicks this year. Whatever. So yeah, a shower opens up.
I've been working so much at college thus far. I'm surprised I'm not dead tired. I'm dead tired. I need coffee. I need cocaine. I need something. I am not going to fall asleep in this shower, but I will be chillin' in here for 45 minutes unless I get something. I've had no time for fun. I've had no time for nightly socializing. And it's goddamn syllabus week. I'm overdevoting myself, clearly. Fronting, so I can see that I'm getting A's. Then I'll stop caring.
No.
Why can't I give a damn this year? I mean what's so different? Towel. I mean, what's so different about those next weeks. Yeah sure, there'll be more to do. But I'll be interested. That's the core value. Have interest. Then you'll succeed. I could do really well this semester. I just have to not get distracted every damn night by stupid unimportant things. Damn unimportant things. Why're they so damn interesting?
Clothes. Music. Shoes. Sunglasses? Fine, sunglasses. My red ones, as they sortof go with my black and red-pinstriped polo. No undershirt. I can pull off no undershirt, yeah, so you know I'm older. I'm not a freshman. Clearly, I mean, look at me. I absolutely know what the fuck I'm doing. On top of my red sunglasses I stuff my 130 dollar headphones. They sound wonderful; they are wonderful. They look slick. I look slick. I am slick —headphones and sunglasses. Together, they are my don't-fucking-talk-to-me accessory.
I'm gonna take the shit outta these notes. Rich Martin? He won't get a word off without me analyzing its meaning, entendres, undertones and linguistic origin. Oh my gosh this is so boring. I wish I were closer with ... a lot of these people. Journalists come from all angles, though. Some of these fuckers are just here because they're nosy. Some of them are here on the sole premise of loving sports. Some just want attention. Some people've got it, though. A lot of these kids have got it. It's about the molding the scoop. Taking the scoop and turning it into story. Not turning it into an article. Not into a fantasy though, either. Just a good story. Virginia Tech. Reporters. Yeah. I don't know how exactly I fit into here anymore. Pretty good. Maybe not perfectly.
I need more flair with my writing. You can't say fuck in journalism. You can't even say I, really. At least not until you've reported yourself soulless. I'm pretty good for it, though. I mean, the stories I do do are typically good. Shit, I've got like nothing down. And this is not keeping me awake. I need to get breakfast and coffee after this.
Why do people make their coffee the same way every damn day? Here I am, making it the same way I did yesterday, with not a strand of questioning in my body. Not much of anything in my body, really. Better down this coffee. Augh it tastes so bad. It doesn't taste good, it feels good. This drink feels good to drink, but it doesn't taste good. Yeah ladies, headphones, sunglasses and coffee. I am so indie. And yeah, these are fucking Reese's Puffs.
--Eliot Sill
Awesome. Writing > journalism.
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