This update is for Cheri, who tells me to keep writing.

This was the day. The Day. I wrote three short papers, had a talk with my advisor, watched said advisor eat a salad, and returned very overdue books to Bobst, our library. I put a down payment on my fine, and I was kool-aid smiling all the way. I Wish I had yearbooks to sign, and crap to jettison from a locker.  Junior year is, as they say, a reynold's wrap, son.

Now I can keep jars of free time in my fridge, and scratch my free time dandruff. I'll own leisure pancakes, and panties, and light bulbs. And I'll have time to be fidgety at 1:40am. Like tonight. Out of bed, I say to self. Kill energy by returning your Netflix. Wait. Please, put pants on. No. Put on hospital scrubs. And a nice tee shirt. Look nice for the street, I say to myself, you never know who'll you'll meet at the mailbox. I listen to myself. Out I go. I locate the nearest mailbox, drop it in, listen to the prepaid envelope greet the other packages at the bottom of the oblong blue bin. Score. Another task completed. I'm a workaholic. I get things done. Like Junior year. Not just any semester's end, today is the day I completed all of my requirements. Now I just have to show up. Jewelry making and private voice lessons will greet me come autumn. Ahem. And writing classes. Lots of writing, 'cause I've put my scholarship to good use.

Look—Food Emporium, the grocery store across the street from my building, is still open. I'd imagine that it's quite empty right now. Maybe there is fun to be had. I must investigate. Have you ever been into a grocer's late late? When you weren't hungry, just to see what was there? Neither have I. It is a magical place. Tied for first with Children's Fairyland, the beauty salon, and the airport.

See. Nestle markets Butterfinger Instant Hot Chocolate. There's Bob the Builder icing, in tiny little "paint cans" and you can coat a gingerbread house, just like the Nickelodeon character would. The middle of night at the supermarket. Fluorescent lights oscillate from dim to bright and the manager turned off the Muzak. No more Kenny G, thanks. It would be quiet while stock boys break down cardboard, if they weren't hurling "ya mama" jokes across the tops of cereal boxes, aisle to aisle. A man restocking beans looks at me as if I've lost my mother in the GOYA brand section. I'd never even heard of GOYA 'till I moved to New York, and, wow, they've got Adobo seasoning in four flavors. He asks me if I'm having a hard time deciding what to eat. I smile, but don't respond. I must look ridiculous. There is no correct reply. It's ten minutes to two, I'm in hospital scrubs, milling about Food Emporium without a basket, or a purse, and clearly not buying. He chuckles.

The Grocery Store. Aren't you awestruck yet? At the end of this aisle is a whole section dedicated, specifically, to specialty conical cheese graters. And there—look—Matzohs are half off, marketed as "an after Pesach blow-out special." This portion of the store is not to be confused with the Kosher food in aisle 7, right next to the Chinese section. "Where is the Japanese food?" I ask myself. Aisle 3. Next to the soup. Wasabi-covered peas and New England Clam Chowder. Tasty. Who gets to decide what goes where? Paper towels, napkins, and disposable plates are directly across the row from all of the dog food and pet grooming supplies. Is this a tactical move? Do pet owners need more absorption? Probably. Tampons are right next to children's shampoo. Hmm.

I'm having a ball. Picture me in the missing footage from the Wiz, as Dorothy gets to Emerald City. Ease on down the Road playing as I strut my stuff. (Watch her get down, watch her get down). Y'all know I've been all sorts of melancholy, perpetually love-struck, dissatisfied with leadership and the shape of my body. Unable to cry, some days coughing up blood, with barbed wire under my fingernails, uncomfortable. I wasn't just fidgety at 1:40 because I had the time to be. Truth is, I was frightened of sleeping alone again, and wanted to feel something different. I swear to you, trying to purge myself of melodrama, so you feel me: I caught the spirit in the bread aisle.  No Hallelujahs or church lady hats but I had a smile, a tear, a dance move jacked from an Usher video. I got a genuine good mood at Food Emporium.

Maybe it's because I'm realizing this college thing is more than 3/4 done, and the Bay summer is so close I can taste the crabgrass lawns and pacific air. Maybe it's because I can now spend time with my bed the way she deserves. I've got time. In the next week I plan on: kissing a man named Oscar in the streets; buying encyclopedias; packing all of my things; doing 2 more rounds as an RA; working at the t.p. dispensery; seeing the Oakland A's wallop the New York Yankees; going to the gym; and boarding a flight bound for the bay.

Lies. I know no one named Oscar, and public displays of affection frighten me. They frighten me in the same way that I'm horrified, bewildered, and trembling scared of the knockoff store-brand Spam in Aisle 2.