  Ok, so I leave my house tonight at 9:30 with every intention of going off to Martini Ranch to pay a visit to Scott whos bar backing for the night. I turn left onto Manchester going east, expecting to take the mostly-shorter cut to the bank in the centre of town. Rolling down the windy road, I start to imagine the toll taken by drinking needless drinks at a bar Im otherwise uninterested in being at. Not just the money, although thats what I was thinking of first and foremost. Theres a trip to Barbados on the near horizon to plan for. A night humming quietly to myself must be the order of the day if Im expecting to save a few all-important pennies.
But the weight factor. Oh lord, have I ever been kicking it up a notch at the gym each day. True, this isnt as much as I managed whilst at my old haunt, Frogs in Encinitas. But then again, there arent any ex-lovers at the YMCA. Still, after three weeks of minimal effort, Ive jumped back up to 2-hour sessions each day of mostly cardio and a ton of sit-ups. Coming off of that high to a bunch of carbo-rich adult beverages doesnt seem logical.
I came home from the gym today a bit light-headed. Thought it was the exertion or the fatigue of having gotten up early and endured two tougher than usual class sessions at the think tank. But then I realised Id only eaten about 200 calories since I woke up, and according to the machines and their calibrations, Id burned over 1000 calories in a cardio frenzy. So yeah, I was shaking so bad, I was unsure if Id be able to take a shower or walk downstairs to make some food substantial enough to quell the quaking. Lying wet and naked on my bed trying to reason it out until I finally sucked it up and made an attempt. And what do you know?
Stuffing my face like Anna Nicole did the trick as quickly as my blood could run from my stomach to my brain. Didnt expect to be up for much tonight, all things considered. The day at school was engaging but at one point evocative of anger and embarrassment. So it was a touch more taxing than my usual state of being a few heartbeats away from a coma. This girl in my 4-person group was supposed to present our discussion on Nietzsche and his argument for the mythical return to the primordial Oneness as embodied by the Apollonian and the Dionysian unity. Which I clearly understand, but that doesnt mean that within a seconds notice Im able to formulate an oral argument to the class.
She claimed the day was hers to speak, and then when it came time to do it, she looked at me and said simply, Charlotte? Shit. I faltered, admitting that I wasnt expecting to address the class. I stumbled through it  not the most linear argument to deal with, especially with fragmented annotations to guide my ramblings. I said it succinctly to a classmate in the quad over a cigarette during our break a moment before. But being thrown to the lions unexpectedly derailed my clarity.
I did a shoddy job. And when the teacher, as always, asked the rest of the group if they had anything to add to the discussion individually, she remained silent. And afterwards? She apologised profusely, offering at least to do the summation write-up thats required of the speaker from each class session. I blew her off politely, thankfully not demonstratively angry and instead just inaccessibly ok with it, no more to be said. If I was actually weighed down with embarrassment, I would have creamed her.
But I let it go as soon as it came on. At least I wont have to present again for the remainder of the session. So like I was saying, I didnt expect to be up for much tonight. Yet Id made tentative plans with Mark tonight to go out for some drinks. He calls me at 7ish to ask me if I still felt up to it, to which I said yes. He mentioned he has to work early in the morning.
So I said, good. Id rather do something more early-ish than something late. So he says, Oh, well I was thinking I was going to take a nap and then run these errands. How does meeting me down here in PB at 9:30 sound? Not clear whether I was being dicked around with, I figured I was let off the hook to spend the evening doing homework instead of being expected to go out for inane frivolity. Wed have had a good time, but Im not about to let someone elses convenience thwart my own.
Forget it. And as it stands now, Im ahead of the game. Ive saved a few bucks staying in for the night. Im doing my exhausted body a favour. I dont have to drive partially impaired. Ive done all the homework I have due for Monday, amounting to 4 pages of concisely written synthesis and analysis of the readings due today.
All this is running through my mind as I head down Manchester towards Encinitas Blvd and my bank. I opted instead to hit 7-11 for some more Mic Ultra and a pack of American Spirits to punctuate my breaks from writing more. Writing to seemingly no one, I know. One of these days soon, Ill realise the dead-end this pursuit really is and abandon it in favour of sculpting a quality novel. But until I desire the structure Ill keep the C drive playing random music, candles lit, sipping beer and smoking cigarettes with stand-up playing on the telly in the background. Wasting time but getting shit done for my A's and staying out of trouble.
So instead Ive got a night with Nick Drake. And a few cheep, empty-tasting beers, and a house all to myself with no hour at which I need to think of retiring. My parents actually went out tonight, a Friday at that, together!, to the Acura tennis tournament to see Clijsters win against Lisa Raymond 6-2, 6-2. Kind of ugly, yet they didnt feel the impetus to stay for the doubles match. So I asked why when they came home so soon (me, who ran inside (at 24!! ) in the beginning stages of a satisfying cigarette when I heard the pathfinder hit the driveway).
They said, So we can go to Julian. Tonight? Yup. They left at 8:30 to drive all the way up there, with my dogs who I was spending my night being entertained by, in the dark to be gone until Sunday. Which settles two things. One, last nights tennis experience was the best night out for my mom and me.
And two, Im definitely adopting a greyhound by October. I hate being without a dog. We went out last night to see the singles match between Davenport and some multi-syllabic woman from Eastern Europe. 6-0 the first set, but then the no name came alive and gave Lindsay a run for her money. But then!! Martina Navratilova, 46, and her 18 year-old partner named Svetlana-something against Cara Black and Likotsova.
Martina is the /first/ lesbian I ever saw on TV. And the first one I admired, even though most of America despised her because she was positioned against Chrissy Evert. But I got to see her, fresh off her Wimbledon victory positioning her in the realm of Billy Jean King, surpassing her record of titles. And yes, positioning her right next to me on her way onto the court. I didnt get her autograph, but our night was pretty damn memorable. What an athlete.
I mean, Im coordinated, and even an exceptionally talented soccer player but shes like if Mia Hamm had an idol SHES A LEGEND!! And there she was standing with me, chumming it up with her partner two feet from me. And Pam Shriver, sitting next to me the first professional tennis match I ever saw was at that court with her, playing Seles. And there was me and my mom and her friend Gail, sitting in the second row along the aisle used for the players to come on and off. It was magic, like seeing ok, like seeing Stephi Graf and Andre Agassi in person, right there on your level. Fantastico.
That was easily the best night Ive ever spent out with my mom. No wonder she left early tonight; theres no way tonight could have competed with last nights tennis-loving bliss. Hunger for nourishment supersedes any desires to keep going. 
