God am I tired. It is 2:13, I am writing this essay and decided to take a break. I've managed to bullshit almost two pages without even discussing the article I am suppose to be writing about. It is really well written though, so I'm happy. Anyway, I forgot to mention to people that I am interviewing Paul Auster tommorow for the Badger Herald. That's pretty cool right? I still have some research to do about him but it should be a cool oppertunity to talk to a great writer. I will tell everyone all about it here. Wasn't yesterday's daily dose nice? I thought it was. As a side note, or eh, per Savage's request, I am going to continue in the theme of "Lost Loves" for the rest of the week. Today's episode is about Julie.

I first met Julie in Eight grade, before I attended Ramaz, when I was just a wee little boy at SAR. I was cool. More importantly, I was invited to the "cool" parties. One such party took place at this girl's penthouse in the city. There, I met a bunch of kids I'd be attending highschool with, the most gorgeous of them being Julie. Infactuated with her, I believe I entered my Freshman year of highschool with dreams of dating her. Sad right? Anyway, as the year progressed, it became obundently obvious that I had about as much chance dating her as I did getting hit by a bus while crossing Madison Ave. Giving up, I tried moving on. Cut to the beggining of tenth grade.

I am riding an elevator to my first class on the first day of school alone with, yes, Julie. A silence comes over us as we catch eyes for a moment, quick to embrace the oppertunity presented to me by god, I tell a joke, an anecdote, something amusing. She laughs. The elevator approaches the destination, I make a clever closing remark to her about modern literary genre in refrence to Kafka and she nodes her head at approval, and giggles again. Glad that I've pleased her, I enter the class confident, proud, hopefull, and oh so sadly naive. I sit a few rows behind Julie and as the class begins I float away into my fantasies of Julie and I living happily after we fuck. But I am awoken by a tap on the shoulder and the familar sound of a note being dropped onto my desk. Anticipation fills me as I unwrap the message. Pink ink is the first thing I see. Scrolling up, I see her name engraved on the bottem of the note "Julie" it reads. "Avi" it begins, "Your fly is open."