I work with a bunch of people who are mostly younger than me, and they have this whole way of communicating that's utterly alien to me. They say stuff like "tight" and "off the hook" and "trippin'" and I spend quite a bit of time just nodding and looking confused.

So then I have no idea what to do with the milk. Does that mean yes or no? I'd appreciate it if one of my younger, more street smart readers would enlighten me.

Word.

I was tempted to stay home from my Keats class today, but ultimately, I am glad I didn't.

The reason I was thinking of skipping class is that for the past three weeks, he's kept us an extra thirty to forty minutes. He has finally started giving us a break in the middle, but it's annoying as hell. It's not like he spends the solid three hours lecturing, either. He teaches class stoned out of his mind, and he spends the first half hour babbling about one thing or the other, basically wasting time.

Last week, he went off on a diatribe about the academic director of the college. The week before, he spent twenty minutes reading out loud from, I am not making this up, a pocket book featuring "Nick", who is apparently one of the Backstreet Boys. You haven't lived until you've heard your 60 year old professor scream with glee, "Nick's favorite food is PIZZA! And get this, it's not just plain pizza, oh NO. It's pizza.... with CHEESE!"

Direct quote. I'm dead serious.

But this week, he started off the class by passing our journals back. (I turned in a really half assed journal, since I had to turn it in the day after Tim left, and I spent the whole day basically recovering from vacation.) On top was a paper I wrote about one of Keats' poems, and there was an A on top of it. I don't know if that was an A for the whole journal, or an A for the paper. (I am inclined to think it was just for that paper; nobody else got a grade at all.) Still, that's great.

He scribbled comments all over everyone's journal pages. Everyone also got a card with more comments inside. I don't know what anyone else's said, but the comments he wrote on my work were very complimentary. I am particularly fond of this one: "It's satisfying to hear the neat crisp sentences, full of sharp interesting thinking, in your paper and typed-up takes. You can really write."

[Arm pump. Yeah! Yeah!]

Once class started, he quoted something I had written in one of my papers. He went off for like half an hour on the subject. (I was commenting on the fact that Keats often stole lines from other poets, and edited his poems according to the whims of his editors and friends. I said that this undermines Keats' authority.) He kept saying, "As Mo said.." and "Mo pointed out..." and even, "I found myself wishing that Mo would form a club for poetic authority..." It was a little embarrassing, but cool, to have my small comment be the jumping off point for his lecture.

Then, at the break, I walked outside to talk to some friends. They immediately started ribbing on me. "Look at you," said Laurie, "The star of the Keats class. 'Oh, Mo says this. Mo says that.'" I smiled and said, "No, no. He made it sound a lot more insightful than it was." Then Wayne piped in. "See? She's talented and she's humble." "Trust me," I had to say. "I'm not that humble."

Toker then said, "I went to a club on Saturday and some friends of mine were there, who had come to Shannon's reading. They asked about Mo. They said, 'Oh, and what about that girl with the manifesto? That was fantastic. What was that about the bean and cheese burrito?'"

I can't believe that they remembered me from that reading! Then Laurie said, "Oh, right, the Taco Bell Manifesto. I missed that poem." Toker said, "When I heard Mo read that poem... that was when I realized she was the rising star of the Poetics program."

Can you believe all this ego inflation? This, on the heels of two Diarist Awards, and an entry from Tim all about how much he loves me? Man, some of you need to write and tell me I suck. I'm going to become impossible to live with.

I saved the best part for last, though. These days, it's quite dark by the time we get out of class. My professor's house has a series of steps and slopes, leading from his front door out to the street. There are no lights, and being me, I am always afraid of falling down the steps.

Today, I was making my way down the stairs behind Laurie. "How many steps are there?" I said, laughing. Suddenly, I felt an arm around my shoulder. Oh, swoon. Oh, melt. Oh, puddle of goo. It was Mickey, making sure I didn't fall down the stairs.

I know he said something to me, and I said something back, and some things were said. Fuck if I know what they are, though.

Once we got down the first series of steps, he just grabbed my hand, and we walked the rest of the way down holding hands. I know holding hands is a very junior high thing to get excited about, but cut me some slack. It's the only physical contact I can have with him and not be committing adultery. I'll take what I can get.

"With the press eagerly awaiting his response, Gore simply responded with a blank look."