And so begins the first entry in what I'm going to loosely title 'The End of My Capability to Love.'  You think this is about some love?  You think it's about the nature of what I'm doing with my life?  Well it sort of is.  You know what I've realized about all of this gradschool bullshit, all of this 'hey kid you betta....'  YEAH WHATEVA...  That's right, the inevitable occurred;  I don't like writing.  It's not that I don't WANT to, I just hate it, hate it like you hate that guy in front of you in the 15 items or less line paying with the money his girlfriend gave him.  You know the guy, he doesn't even know how much money is in the wad, so he just shoves it forward, content and confident in his ignorance that his magnanimous gesture of 'here take my money' will be more than enough to compensate for the fact that HE DOESN"T HAVE ENOUGH MONEY TO PAY FOR THE FOOD/PRODUCT/SERVICE.  On a similar note, that is me...right now.  I have about thirty dollars to my name and it HAS to be enough to get me back down to matt's in CT or I'm flat out SHIT OUT OF LUCK.  Whoa whoa, I"m getting ahead of myself...perhaps I should describe my exploits so far on the way to gradschool.  Here goes...

It was a lazy saturday afternoon when I left.  Left is certainly the right word, I didn't depart, I didn't go, I left home, to go where?  Vermont.  Why?  BECAUSE I"M A MORON.  The drive began as all drives begin, with me chugging an entire bottle of water to stave off 'dehydration' that demon whom lurks on the edge of my reality just waiting for me to slip up so he/she/it can devour my frikkin faculties and leave me flipping a dozen times over the guardrail to land on a kindergarten playground crushing and maiming dozens of children.  Now granted, people do not get dehydrated easily...  I'm just completely paranoid of that inevitability, so much so that it consumes my entire reality.  In this minds-eye people drop every three seconds from lack of water, burning of thirst and sweating blood from every pore, their skin melding with the hideously grinning asphalt which chews them slowly, like that first orange slice of the summer.  You know the one, that slice which comes so close to getting shoved in someone's eye, but you savor anyway, just because you don't want its sweet sweet fruit juices to be wasted on the ocular region of some idiot.  Where was I, oh yeah driving.  You know what city blows?  Philadelphia.  Now granted, my friend John lives there, and I've actually been to an odd show there that was pretty good.  But on the whole (and the hole) Philly is a sack of shit.  This judgement is brought to you specifically by 2 hours stuck in completely unmoving traffic outside of the godforsaken heap of human garbage.  Get this.  There's a three lane highway.  Suddenly...one lane...for no reason.  ABSOLUTELY NONE AS FAR AS I CAN TELL.  This happens in that magical number we're all so familiar with 500 feet.  500 FEET!??!?!!?  ON A HIGHWAY!?!?!?  That is literally like making the prostitute lean into the window of your car while you're on the way home.  You have ten miles to go, but you figure:  'hell I can fit in a little sucky sucky before I get home to the wife/husband.'  HELL LET"S DO EVERYTHING LAST MINUTE.  YOU WANT TO GET OVER A BRIDGE--OH I"M SORRY WE"RE NOT DONE YET, YOU"VE GOT 30 FEET TO STOP OR JUMP THE GORGE.  (#*$&^@#(*)$& CHRIST.  So naturally, as I'm sure everyone can understand...no one let anyone else in, it became a scene of several fenderbenders.  Which brings me to another point.  APPARENTLY IN PENNSYLVANIA (FUUUUUUUUCK I HATE PA) WHEN YOU BUMP SOMEONE YOU DON"T PULL OVER ONTO THE SIDE.  NOPE.  THE WHOLE HIGHWAY IS YOUR PLAYGROUND AND YOU STAND THERE FOR HOURS DISCUSSING YOUR DINGS.  AND ANOTHER THING....DING DONGS!?!?!?  Who made that a name of a delicious snack cake?  It's phallic enough, and filled with lovely white cream, but you had to take the next step...Once I got out of PA everything went alright for a while, until I hit New York, the vacant blonde of the east coast metropoli.  Who likes New York?  It has to be....the worst...city to drive through.  It's like one giant canyon, that you drive through, whilst people toss garbage from overpasses and you are attacked by the brute squad.  In fact, I'm fairly positive that the populace of New York takes turns on the brute squad (kind of like the national guard), who's sole purpose is to try and merge into your lane when it is clear that you are RIGHT NEXT TO THEM.  YOU ARE NOT IN THEIR BLIND SPOT...THEY JUST DON"T LOOK.  OH OH OH, and once they realize that you ARE in their lane...they lean out the window with their giant gold hoop earrings, or their giant biceps covered in inane skull tattoos and they point at you.  "Hey dirty baltimore punk...you better be extremely careful who you fuck with."  "Thanks guy, I'll be sure to take your recommendation next time when I don't beep and you send me careening into the wall to flip my car over and die in a gout of fire."  SO, SEVEN HOURS LATER, I reach Matt's house.  Matt is a delight as always, and we hung out a little before both of us went to sleep.  But wait.  I had to tolerate the company of his girlfriend.  Have I ever mentioned how much I hate Katie?  How absolutely soul shearing she is in close company?  If you placed Katie in a confined environment with six puppies, three psychologists, and a highschool physics teacher for seven hours, I can guarantee when you re-entered the room you would see the three psychologists all collectively choking one another, the physics teacher hung by his own belt from the ceiling.....and the puppies.....well the puppies remain relatively untouched.  They after all, can't understand the things that come out of her mouth.  And no, you don't want anything coming out of her mouth.  You don't want anything going in either, except for a grapefruit in a tubesock.  If you can break her jaw she'll probably just starve to death......though it will take a while.  So in short, I hope someone pours finely ground glass down her nasal passage and she drowns in her own blood.  So whatever, I wake up and leave this morning, to drive the last leg up to Goddard.  You know what's HILARIOUS!?!?  Vermont has NO GASSTATIONS.  Ok that's an exaggeration, there are six gasstations in the whole state.  On any given day...three are closed.  Imagine, just IMAGINE driving on a highway that has.....NO EXITS...for miles!  And I don't mean for like 10 miles, I mean NO EXITS for upwards of FORTY FUCKING MILES.  So I'm slowly running out of gas, panicking (as I do), and listening to some doomcore (not exactly the most upbeat music ever).  Finally, like mana springing from the ground, I find a Sunoco.  But guess what, I pull into the pump...that shit is closed.  Dead closed.  The town is empty.  I see why moments later.  Bikers.  Everywhere.  Now you're probably saying to yourself, I think Keith stopped typing and is now watching Mad Max.  IF ONLY THAT WERE TRUE.  Here's the ensuing conversation...

Biker A(bald, dozens of tattoos, giant chains)--Where you goin there little man?
Me(long haired, spindly, about to sob)--Umm...Goddard College
Biker B(blonde haired hideous crone)--Ooooo A coooollllleeggeee boy.  You gonna teach us something or two?
Me(pants now fully soiled)--I'm just trying to find some gas, I'm not sure how much further it is...
Biker C(redhaired ren fest dude)--From Maryland eh?  You're a looooong way from home buddy.
Me--Yeah well I just thought I'd....*SSSCCRREEEEEEETCH*

I eventually make it to Goddard, bikers aside.  It is nearly a campground.  There are cottages instead of dorms, everything is DIRTY AND FROM THE SEVENTIES for some reason...and everyone is old....like really old.  My roomate is like 50-something and BRITISH.  *Cue odd-couple theme*  Of course, as expected, I have been DEVASTATINGLY antisocial, and have met only ooooone person so far.  But on the plus side he's cool (in his early 30's too so not tooooo old), and seems to think this is all as supremely lame as I do.  So that's good, I managed to recover a marichino cherry in my pile of ice-cream and HIPPO FECES.  Anyways, I'll try to continue to post mis-adventures and anti-hippy/writer rants while I'm up here.  It's not like I'm going to be doing anything else.