There should be a calm before the storm of war but I haven’t seen it.

Saturday early morning around 3:38 a.m. and the world is silent aside from the radio and the random thoughts in my head. It’s so different. This time of night 3 years ago I’d be sitting in Golden West chuggin the joe, standing in the night chillwind dragging on a smoke, or writing napkin notes for the next band practice. Instead I sit here listening to someone else’s music and feeling sorry for myself. Drinking my bottled cappuccino and staring at the wisps of smoke in the air of my Del Monte room. Paper-thin walls were all that separated me from the guys in the next room. I could hear them but not understand. Were they talking about me, I wondered. Probably. I could feel the tears wooshing up and my stomach sank. I took another swig and stubbed out the cigarette. Isolation. A single note in the dead air. That’s what I felt like. I wondered how we were going to get past this and what I was going to do with my life if we didn’t. I had to do something so I turned on my old Smith Corona and started writing Randy a letter. I poured myself and my soul into it. I left nothing out. I figured this would be my best bet at getting him to listen to me and it would also be his last chance. If he couldn’t respect me and how I felt… then screw him.

*rescued journal entry from an old computer file

Epitome – done

Tomorrow’s Sunday – almost done

Bullets —– need drum lines.

She wore Winter –

This movie is so old! The lighting is so bad that you can’t see what the artwork looks like. I can’t believe that we’re watching this shit. The soundtrack is so bad that you can’t understand the talking. This is boring! Too much music! Too much static. What artist is this film about? 38 more minutes to go! I wish I sat in the back so I could go to sleep. This is the Renaissance, why are we watching stuff about Roman ruins? This is psychotic! I’d rather be in Physics. The script sucks. Cheesy! The film’s movement is too jerky. What’d you say about my momma? Bam! Bam. Bam. 15 minutes to go! Please let me out of here. Boring! Janick is a Nazi. Blah. Blah. Blah. Propaganda!!!!!! Let’s go!

-transcribed from a typewritten transcription of a journal entry written during Mr. Janick’s Art History 101 class at MPC. Worst class ever.