The professor has been seen scribbling away in a small Moleskine notebook over the last week. Though he doesn't seem to mind being caught, he always tucks the thing into his back pocket (or messenger bag, should he be wearing it) whenever he's met with company. What's in that little black book? Lesson plans? Appointment reminders?

Should some curious student (or thief, or other of Hathian's finest) happen upon this prize, she would first find that about five pages have been ripped out from the front of the notebook. Behind those shreds sticking out from the binding are a few pages defaced by a red fountain pen in the combination of print and script that typically signals an indecisive author.

The first page, dated 9/5.
Words fall through the lines, slipping away at a downward angle as they crawl across the page, but remain legible save for a few scratched out words and respellings.

First off: fuck blogs.

Sure, they're great for broadcasting your rants to the whole world, but ... I have a few things that aren't up for public scrutiny for once. You know this isn't my thing--the writing and all that. Considering I have zero friends to talk to in this place, and all the ones I did talk to back home have basically been ordered to consider me fucking dead until further notice ... well, it's me and you, little buddy.

Christ, I'm talking to a fucking notebook. Kill me now before I reproduce.

Anyway.

I really should start from the beginning on this odyssey of mine, but I think I'm just gonna Tarantino this shit: I got stabbed last night. Yeah. Stabbed. The best part? This was about five seconds before a bomb went off in the club.

Now, you wanna tell me what the good is in me leaving Jersey, coming to the middle of nowhere, when I'm gonna walk in a building and come close to death twice? Hell, I'd be better off going home and facing either jail or the bottom of the bay at this rate.

But ... I'm alive. I eventually let some chick (Rachel, I think was her name ... shit's still pretty blurry at this point) talk me into going to the hospital. Doc gave me some pills for the pain after she sewed me up. Probably not the best thing, but I've never had a problem with Vicodin.

I think I've done pretty good so far. Kept my nose clean just like I promised everybody. So I get a little fucked up a few times a week at whichever bar hasn't been shut down for a robbery or arson attempt ... big deal. And I've only had one person--some other teacher, I think she said--give me that old bitchfest about how smoking's gonna kill me.

Come on. I'm sticking to legal vices. Gimme a break. It's not like I'm running around with a nosebleed and shaking so bad I can't lift a bottle without breaking it. I could be doing a hell of a lot worse, in my opinion. Let me have my Jameson and my Lucky Strikes, and fuck off, have a nice day.

Alright, so the pills have me a little distracted. I probably took too many, but that's between you and me, alright? When this presciption's gone and the hole in my back's healed, I'm done. I don't really like these things anyway. Feels too much like a crash, and I fucking hate crashes. That's one thing I don't miss about blow.

Ok, ok ... enough drug talk. Gotta stop that. Back to the story. Shit ... where was I? Oh yeah. How about how I spent my night? So there was this chick at the club, before it blew the fuck up. Lex ... another Brit. What is it with these girls? They're like ... kryptonite or something. One little dangerously adorable smile, and I'm useless.

So there I am, getting let out of the hospital, and there she is, wrapped up in a blanket and just shaking. There's some doc trying to get her to stay overnight, and Lex isn't having it. She had no more business being there than I did. And if anybody hates the hell out of some hospitals, it's yours truly.

So I took her home, and next thing I know she's asleep in my arms. When's the last time that happened? Last time I got that close to a girl I nearly broke her just trying to get off. (Which is probably why I've only seen her once since then, and I'm almost starting to feel bad about it ... but that's probably the Vicodin talking. Gotta remember to ask Lucie about her, make sure everything's okay.) But this ... ah, hell. It was just the fact that we were both shaken up from all the shit that went down last night. God knows she's still freaked out from everything. I don't even remember half of what I said to her, but it must've worked.

Maybe I do need to find a woman again. Kinda nice having somebody to hold at night. But that ... that's between you and me. Last thing I need right now is to be getting soft. This is going to be a hell of a long semester, if I really am going to be stuck here until everything dies down back home.