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Sofy Dzhanashvili
03/10/09
English 211W
Professor Henkle



March 2, 2009
8:50 pm

Texas Hold em’. I lost last night to Stace and Carl and ended up covering everyone’s drinks. D. fell into a homeless man on the way home, bugged out and refused to go on the subway. We all had to squeeze into the back of a cab and there was an accident on the Midtown Tunnel, so I had to spend a good forty minutes with my face pressed against the window. I’m never going to get into graduate school.

March 6, 2009
10:30 pm

So I figure that when I’m a famous writer this journal will be probably be sold to the highest bidder on e-bay. They’ll chronicle my life in accordance to entry. They’ll pay for insider information to match names with faces. I’ll probably be really self-righteous by then and refuse to disclose any information. They’ll admire how I quote Nietzsche. They’ll frame the doodles I’ve drawn in the margins. It’ll be great.

March 12, 2009
2:30 am (?)

Hookah bars are overrated. The only fun thing about flavored water pipes are that you can make smoke rings. You sit there and pass around the hookah and nothing really happens. The whole experience is disappointing and anti-climactic. This time we went to Horus, which is right by Alphabet City and full of underage high-school kids who constantly make overly dramatic hand gestures and only come for the belly dancer on Thursday nights. I really don’t think it’s a big deal that the chick can do stomach rolls. I’ve been more impressed by a guy who played the clarinet by the subway station on 34th.

March 16, 2009
11:20 pm

Birthday’s suck.
Turning legal totally doesn’t outshine my Peter-Pan-complex.
I. don’t. like. getting. older.
My grandma gave me a pink nightgown and told me to wear it on my future wedding night. It was mortifying. I don’t even have a boyfriend now. Last year she gave me a vase that had gold rims and weighed more than my Neuroscience textbook. It’s still hiding in my mother’s dining room closet.
I’ve been pissed all day. I walked in to all of my classes late and I didn’t even have to- I just decided that I needed to get coffee before each one. I haven’t been picking up any calls and have left all the overly-excited birthday messages to go straight to voicemail. Dave always spoke about how he never understood my moodiness. The DMV sent me a new license that doesn’t have “Under 21” written on it in bold red ink. I’m feeling a bit melancholy about not having to use a fake ID anymore- it was fun being Anna Tsiporin for a few years. I know her address and everything. Oh and she was born on August 14th, 1984. I’ll always have it memorized. And I don’t even know who she is. It’s sad that I can’t be sneaky anymore.
Since I’m celebrating at Empire with D. on Thursday night I ended up just going to dinner with my parents and then coming home to find myself re-organizing my accessories drawer and re-reading The Alchemist. I pretended that I was doing something more exciting. Paulo Coelho may have just been readmitted to the psych ward, but he is one hell of a genius.
Happy 21st. Yay.


March 17, 2009
Late-ish.

“Be who you are and say what you feel because those who mind don't matter and those who matter don't mind.”
Apparently, much can be learned from Dr. Seuss.


March 18, 2009
7:45 pm

Tam called to wish me a belated happy birthday and told me about adding fresh garlic to the original guacamole recipe that she had told me about last week. Totally a good call. I ate a complete bowl full while I went through an entire folder of old essays I had on my computer. I forget about my Dickinson obsession- the semester where I thought I had a special connection to Dickinson’s poetry and believed that I understood it on a level that was beyond above everyone else. Recreational drugs may have played a factor in this delusion. I wrote four different essays all in November 07’ and I don’t even remember if I did well on them. Did I even have my poetry classes then? I was completely obsessed; this was another “existential crisis” of mine and I was compelled to replace my inability to accept reality with Dylan or photography or the ego-feeding pretentiousness of documentary films. It’s sad to realize how people boil down to pattern. I can be so predictable. My life has been a tennis-match of yo-yo dieting and random artistic mania. “Are you Nobody too?”