Tattoos in Pen

If people could read minds, I would be suffering great deals of abuse right now.

I don't like the feet of the girl sitting next to me (I think her name is Olivia). I don't like the way the guy sitting next to her is blowing his nose at regular intervals. Someone probably doesn't like the way I am drawing a flower on my hand.

I look at it after it is done and feel immediately embarassed, promptly hiding it under the sleeve of my pink jersey.

The flower reminds me of first year, when I was Jonno's "little Priya" and he would let me draw pictures over his arms in class. That was before our falling out. I think about emailing him - a passing thought. I will consider it seriously later.

For the first time in two weeks, I have made it to my morning class. I don't think that I am gaining any more knowledge than I would by sitting at home reading the lecture notes, but at least I can sign the attendance sheet (and forge attendance for other people).

The morning was foggy and I walked through it listening to the Cranberries and Justin Timberlake. I got honked at, waved at and whistled at. At one point, I wondered if they could actually hear what I was listening to. All this is usual. Yesterday, two builders tried to make conversation fromt he top story of the house they were demolishing.

I notice that when I am walking, men in cars will make a point of looking (and sometimes waving). Women will drive on by, happily minding their own business, probably listening to Justin Timberlake. I conclude that to be able to walk down the street in peace, you need to be a guy.

On my good days, I will smile and wave back. On my bad days, I will storm home with a walk I hope will make people wish they had never looked to start with. When I get home, I will stare in the mirror and wonder what is wrong with me. Is there something on my clothes? No. Maybe my clothes are the problem, maybe jeans and jerseys are getting old fashioned. Maybe my Globes are too worn out.

I don't know, I don't know.

Sometimes I see girls in short skirts and skimpy tops, and wonder how they do it. I could not handle the attention. And of course I would not feel happy wearing flesh baring clothes to begin with, because I am not satisfied with my body.

Where do the insecurities come from? I don't know. I shouldn't have them, because I have Boy. And before him, I had many other boys. Yet they are always there, always taunting, always convincing me that I am not good enough. Regardless of anything anyone tells me.

This is where Mike used to come in. I'd always know that he wanted me - a given for the last four years. Only thinking back now I realise that he wanted most everyone and anyone (despite his "I don't do this with just anyone, you know" insistances), so it really doesn't give me any credit. Not that it was respectable credit to begin with.

I yawn, and examine the slide titled "Data Entities Compared with Objects" project on the screen in front of the room. It makes no sense to me, and I am grateful again that there is no exam for this paper.

This is what happens when you go into lectures and don't know what's going on. You ponder things that probably aren't worth the ponderances.

I yawn again.

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