Smells like activist...

I don't want to write about school, because I spend all the time thinking about it.

Instead, I will write about:
A- The party I attended on Friday night.
B- My new tendency to say "Boo, whore!" all the time.

A: On Friday night, I attended a loft party in Brooklyn. This party represented, to me, all that the crazy-city bohemian life should be (not my life, per se- I'm a sell out). Everyone brought a bottle of alcohol and just hung out all night- evenly distributing time between the loft and the hodgepodge of broken patio furniture set up on the roof. The loft had been a huge, single room studio, and the four inhabitants built walls and rooms- some of them with multiple stories. It was covered in home-made art work and lights and had three couches and reams of mismatched fabric and was the most wonderful mess. The party was inhabited mostly by drunk activists. When I first headed up to the roof with a red, plastic solo cup of red wine (which I later spilled all over myself- while still completely sober), I was warned by one of the guys: "Don't sit next to him! He smells like activist!" We didn't spend too much time speaking of activism, but I did learn that a bunch of the guys road-tripped down to Texas where they protested outside of an Exxon dressed in tiger suits and got arrested. The party ended in the wee hours of the morning. I was made to salsa dance with one of the hostesses before I left, and I danced right into a table. The bruise is a glorious grey-blue.

B: Saw Mean Girls the other day, and have been running around the apartment saying "Boo, whore!" to the roommates. Nothing wrong with this, though I do have this fear that I will carry my new favorite phrase into grad class with me...

DRAMATIZATION

Classmate: I disagree with William James on this point. 'To You', and ultimately 'Song of Myself' as well, cannot be whittled down to pluralism. If you interpret the superlative terms as comparitive terms, you do eliminate some of the abstractions, but you also lose the essential essence of Whitman's work.
Me: Boo, whore.