The following, I gathered from my notebook, written sometime last year. I posted this entry upon request of my friend T---.



I befriended an odd girl, T--- from room 314. T--- brings me to complete contemplation sometimes. I wonder if she epitomizes the typical forlorn girl of my childhood novels (which I never finished writing). She had long, unbecoming tresses of a depressed, overworked housewife, the clothes of a financially challeged country girl and the facial expression of someone who had gone through a litany of emotional bancruptcy brought about by abortive romances and bad financial troubles. She posseses the beautiful and scholarly yet naive mind I claimed having during my years in college, with the hopes that I would trick people---pseudo-intellectuals or otherwise into reciprocating my friendship.

Her shoes were white, the thick soles smudged with road dirt and its velcro straps almost losing their grip around her pale ankles. I knew I have seen those white shoes before and when I forced myself to ponder deeply where I have seen them before, I recalled seeing them in my mother's wedding album--she was wearing the same, exact pair under her wedding gown.

T--- is the brown Fiona Apple of my youth.