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Saturday, September 27, 2003

bittersweet gangsta-rap

The sky was somewhere in-between calm and disturbing, breezy and chilly, somewhere in-between summer and fall. I was walking in-between work and home, obligation and recreation, the on-duty soldier getting five minutes to gradually turn himself off. Five minutes is how long it takes me to walk home from work.

I heard footsteps behind me that momentarily echoed mine. They sounded like hurried, purposeful footsteps, like they were in a rush to make the train or beat the crowd outside to the parking lot at the end of a White Sox game. I was effortlessly walking home from work and she passes me, short, with her little black blackpack and long sandy brown hair that entices my hands the same way that moist, cool beach sand did when I was seven years old and anxiously digging away for some long-lost hidden treasure. This time though I managed to curb my anxiety and, more importantly, my hands. "Jessica," I calmly summoned her.

She slows down, we talk small, and i'm happy to be walking down the Quad next to a pretty girl. We part and later I can't resist turning around, longingly gazing halfway down the Quad as she rides away on her bike. And with the pleasant imagery of her nice booty I continued on, on in-between work and home, calm and disturbed, breezy and chilly, happy and sad.

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