Mom and Dad, you may not want to read this one.

This blog is no longer for your benefit. Its for mine and mine only. So fuck you, and all that jazz.

You know those days when you miss both alarms, and wake up at 9:00am, exactly when your class is supposed to start? And when you curse your very existence, and your stupidity for drinking too much the night before? The days when your roommate says, "Don't you have class?" and your reply is "Fuck you, yes I do"? But you decide you're going to go to class anyway, and you throw on some clothes, stick a little toothpaste in your mouth, run your fingers through your hair and walk out the door, only to realize you don't have your tube card, room key, wallet, or more importantly, your chapstick. You franticly text your freshly made friends, trying to figure out what museum your class is going to today so you can meet them there. You know that as you're walking down the street, even having put no effort into your clothing whatsoever, that you look like a fierce-ass-bitch with your sunglasses and coat. This gives you just a little bit of hope that your day is going to be ok. But you're still drunk from the night before, and desprately trying to get to class. In this moment, you're a terrible college student, and pretty much a fuck-up at life. But its ok. There's a cute boy in your class that you enjoy talking to, even if he is a breeder. And you love art. Maybe still being drunk will make it better? You get to class just as they are leaving for the museum, water bottle in hand, and all of a sudden, this day doesn't seem like its gonna suck so much.

Yeah, today was one of those days.

The boys were not loud. They did not misbehave. They payed attention, and raised their hands politely. They were everything that a teacher could have asked for.
But as I looked at them looking at Van Gogh, I had to wonder. What was the real story behind them? Who had a lot of friends? Who was the loner? Who had family issues? Who's parents were struggling to pay for their school? Who would grow up to be successful? Who was going to become an addict? Who was going to turn out gay or straight? What were their secrets?

Maybe it was because I was still drunk, but staring at them staring at the painting, and listening to their teacher talk to them like he really cared, I wanted to know more.
For me, they were the art. Not the painting.

As I was walking home I remembered that I was going to see one of my favorite musical artists with one of my best friends tonight, and I realized that today was one of those days. When the people in front of me were walking too slowly, I didn't hate them.

I just walked. And smiled. And looked like a fierce-ass-bitch.