foomart foomart

Stuff I saw on my walk home tonight:

1. a woman wearing a shirt that read TAKE A PLUMBER, which I liked a lot until I doubletook and realized it just said TAKE A NUMBER
2. a small Latina walking a full-sized Great Dane
3. an embarrassed yuppie in his plaid boxers, changing pants on what he thought was a deserted street

Kickboxing was fairly empty tonight, just four of us, and I was the senior student. I actually know how to do some of this stuff, imagine that. I still feel as spastic as ever, but it turns out I've picked some of it up after all. Working with a beginner is a great way to realize how far you've come. And getting repeatedly kicked in the solar plexus by a sempai who doesn't believe in pulling punches or going slowly is a great way to be reminded how far you still have to go.

I'm home and now that I've showered off a pound or so of sebum and sweat I'm supposed to go across the way and partay with G and C. Don't wanna. When I walked into the courtyard, G was playing one of the Fela records I gave him, and the funk was flowing, but I guess when I took my shower I lowered the ambient funk level and now they're playing fucking Coltrane. I am so not in the mood for wanky jazz* and stunk/droned people right now. All I want to do is stay nice and clean and fragrant and non-smoky, and drink water, and go to bed. Wonder if they'd notice if I didn't show up.

*to be fair, I am never in the mood for wanky jazz

10:48 PM