I’m going to get to the library for when they open today.
mercredi 25 février 2026
10:01 [sets timer for 30 minutes]
I didn’t rise with the sun this morning, nor did I go on a run. It’s no fun.
Ou, there was this cute boy the last time I visited Culver City Stairs and you can bet he surely did stare. I couldn’t open my posture up to receive any advances though; it would’ve been a little rude to the guy that had picked me up from my place standing right there. I thought we were on a date until we moved closer to the register at Cava and he asked me to pay for his plate. That’s a story for another day. Goodness gracious.
At the summit of Baldwin Hills Scenic Overlook, I had a moment for sweet eyes with this tall, fine man because the short-but-sweet one that picked me up was still huffing and puffing his way to the top. Ugh. I don’t know what turns my lips into a twist of disgust more, him not being able to keep up with me on a hike or him asking me for a bite.
Yes, when we went to Cava right around the corner from the Stairs and his money magically disappeared, I paid for my food and he sat there with a free water cup filled with one of their housemade frescas. Some would call that stealing.
Hm, instead of going to the library when the timer goes off, maybe I should head over to Culver City Stairs to potentially, coincidentally bump into that tall, fine, fit man that I couldn’t really get into it with last time due to the dead weight I was carrying. [rolls eyes] (I damn near had to loop my arm through his to get him to go around the short trail a second time). What good is a good for nothing negroni?! What good?! He’d often imply that his two-door, deep blue BMW was the good. Let me come pick you up. What time do you go to set tomorrow? I’ll bring you to work. He is really sweet, he is, and all he wanted to do was admire me, you’re so well put together, and never once ever did he pressure me for sex. (I almost wondered if he were gay at one point, but that meaningless, as I wonder this about any man that blinks wrong or whose eyelashes are too long. [raises eyebrow] What’s going on?)
Yeah, should I go? Culver City Stairs, quick bike ride there. Or, am I letting my little hot twat be a tool of distraction for what I know I ought to actually be doing?
Ugh, I want to see him!
Girl, when was this? You haven’t tried to go see ‘bout bumping into that man in all these months, now all of a sudden, it’s a MUST?! I need you to be so f—king fr right now, Miss T. Krys. Go yo’ stupid, ugly, raggedy a— up to that muhfuhkin library and do some of some sh-t you said you want to do. Some of some of what you’ve beeeeeeeen saying you want to do. You always on some bullsh-t, you. Get on my got damn nerves, guh.
Ain’t that paper due?
Now you know you don’t waste money and DAMN sure not yours — the way it takes every mitochondrial piece of mite in your body to get you to go earn it! Sh-t.
Okay, what do you actually want/need to do, if you muffle the pussy pur?
3 pages, double-spaced sent to Prof. Amy Friedman by 11:59 (so before leaving library because why tf would you play and wait?!) — UCLA Writers Program assignment
an evening at the ballet pitch, show runs mid-March, couple weeks out — it’s giving aroundwithTK meetup or Greaux Studio gathering [perches lips] [nods] mhm hm.
[timer sounds]
About the same amount of lines left on second page as yesterday’s morning pages.
(Though I site Artist’s Way, I really do it my own way. Julia Cameron’s method, from my understanding of what I’ve heard, is rolling over and writing a stream of consciousness until three pages are filled, as soon as the artist opens up his eyes in the morning. I’ve done that before and I don’t know if I kept it going for more than two or three days; that’s everything though. I tend to lose interest in an activity as quickly as I’d gained it and am onto my next novel pursuit. This particular go ‘round with Artist’s Way’s morning pages, I couldn’t even get into it; I reached for my notebook a few times this week upon opening my eyes and didn’t open it or write a sentence. Next thing I know, it’s noon. Yesterday and today, it has worked for me to first go outside, move my body, have a beverage or a bite, the come back in and write.)
Hey, I was seated within the opening hour, towards the end, but nonetheless the opening hour. I’d wiped down an independent study desk along the floor-to-ceiling windows at WeHo’s modern-yet-classic building for a collection of books, I’d opened this device and placed fingers on keys.
Usually, once I write something, I never read it again, unless, it’s years later and someone has brought up a topic that makes me think about a certain piece for a specific reason. Typically, once I’ve written it, I’m over it. (This was the same in secondary school and at University; I’m going to wait until the last-minute to do a paper overnight that I had the entire semester to write. Ain’t no drafts, bih, you gettin’ whatchu get).
Now, as I begin to take myself seriously as a writer, I question my habits. Okay, I’m good, but why not be better? This may seem contradictory, however, being Gifted hinders me. I don’t try, not hard, never did, because I didn’t have to.
There must be a senior citizen activity center visit to the library going on right now. “There’s no phone calls allowed up here,” the librarian comes over few minutes into an elderly man speaking into his phone at the top of his withering lungs. “What’d you say,” he responds at his same volume, not at all matching her inside-voice. Towards the beginning of his call, he’d said with excitement, “guess where I am!” Surely, before the person could guess, “THE WEST HOLLYWOOD LIBRARY,” comes out of his mouth even more chipper than before.
[sounds of an old Motorola echoes across the space]
“Don’t answer your phone,” he shouts a few book stacks away to his senior citizen lady friend, “there’s no loud talking in the library.” All I could do was giggle internally.
(Note: I’m not being judgemental, simply saying there surely are hella old folks in here today, though that is what I did say to myself. There’s clearly an organized group with accompanying chaperons on a field trip.)
“Did you see any books?” A medium-brown lady with keys jingling around her wrist and a gentle smile approaches an Asian man seated at the window leaning forward on his red walker.
“Hm?” He very slightly turns her direction without facing her.
“Did you see any books, or no?” She kindly repeats her check-in.
“I see all sorts of books. This is a library!”
His response tickles us both, as she catches me watching from fifteen or so feet away and we exchange a smile and muted giggle.
That’s why I come to the library to write. Not to inhale aromas reminiscent of a Southern Baptist deaconness or see strollers lined up in the first floor window and hope to God that the tots have had their naps today. I come because there’s usually less for me to consume myself with than there is at home. It’s quiet. It’s consistent (for the most part). It’s stagnant. The library is a boring place and boring breeds creativity. That’s what I’m learning.
My mind works best sans external influence. I’ve always known this. However, now, I’m getting into the minutiae of it. Hm, that’s why that works. And my hard-headed behind is learning how to listen to it.
If it ain’t broke, don’t fix it.
Back to how the bad habits I built from being a Gifted child hindered me.
If I’m making straight A’s, why would I change? Mrs. Walker submitted some essay that I don’t even remember writing to a statewide competition and I ended up a finalist that got to be lauded by the Honorable Judge Hatchett. I flipped some bologna for the science fair and took home a trophy every year.
Sh-t, what if I f-ck around and try, only to find out I really ain’t sh-t? I rather keep living on luck, or whatever the f-ck.
I saw people’s parents pay for specialized tutors for higher scores, and skip activities to go study and break their necks to never miss an assignment, all to come up short next to somebody’s dingy a— who ain’t doing nothing but frolicking down the hall when she’s supposed to be in class. That must f—king suck.
(I felt bad about it too, yeah. I’d do my friends’ work for ‘em, place my exam on the edge of the desk and move my arm out of the way, or whatever we came up with that would lend a helping hand. For example, I took my lil’ makeshift bestie’s ACT test for her to get accepted to the college of her choice — we’re two tall, lightskin Black girls with round faces; she gave me her Louisiana driver’s license and I checked in at her scheduled testing location on Test Day as her.)
The only thing that would make me feel worse than putting forth effort and failing is putting forth effort and succeeding… making the next person feel as though she failed.
Being a Gifted child has hurt me as an adult because I never built habits of hard work. (In academics, this is; Granny would bust my a— had I not scrubbed that tub or them dishes right; I know how to spend a whole Saturday cleaning). I never knew what it was to study nor plan, neither organize nor work on a project over time. This is how being a Gifted child affected me, outwardly.
Inwardly, I’m afraid. Having suceeded without trying, — and by “suceeded” I mean graduating at the top of my class from both high school and college — I don’t know what it is to have tried and failed. And the people on this here good Internet these days say that trying and failing is a part of the process. [scrunches up lips] Ion like det.
Moreover, I’m afraid of leaving people behind. I’m afraid of doing better than folks, intentionally. I don’t want people mad at me. Having a higher GPA than at least 90 percent of the student population was by happenstance. And the other kids knew that. That guh just smart, she don’t even care doe. Unlike Lanney, the girl that ended up the valedictorian of our class and everybody at the high school hated because she made it her dying goal to do better than anybody on any test or assignment that she could control. This annoying a— b-tch was the type to put less effort towards a group project or ask the teacher if we could be graded separately because she didn’t want anyone to possibly benefit from her academic prowress. You know how I implied earlier that I’d let the other kids cheat off me? Okay, you don’t want to cheat, whatever. Weird, but whatever. This goose neck, gobble throat a** h** would not only not participate in cheating, she would tattle-tail if she saw other people cheating, even if it had NOTHING to do with her. GIRL! Who tf asked you to go above and beyond in academic integrity?! I will say, she was white; we may not have had a name for it then, but the people on TikTok call that a Karen now. A nosey white woman is good for reporting something that has nothing to do with her, nor is hurting anybody.
My freaky friend from high school — whose name I won’t reveal, but those who know, know — texted me some years ago saying that she was watching some adult entertainment on one of those sites and who did she see? Lanney. I told you she was a gobble throat a** h**. [inserts upside-down smiley face]
[two days later, sitting on set for a background extra gig at L.A. Coliseum]
My computer was about to power off in the library as I was writing what you read above. In attempt to make myself move more quickly, I intentionally left my charger at home.
As I was walk
[two days later, after those two days later, sitting in the WeHo public library]
See, this is why I have to get whatever it is that I’m trying to do done while I’m doing it, because once I get up, who knows if or when I’ll get back.
I’m not even going to go back to read what I wrote to know what I was saying to be able to close this with a nice little bow. Yep, no. At this point, I’m just going to post and move along.
Yesterday, I did day 2 of a two-Saturday writer’s workshop at UCLA and this morning, I pulled out the notebook where I’d written my student login. Now that I’m in Canva for the first time, after completing the course, I’m glancing over materials shared by the instructor, as they’ll delete in two weeks, and what better time to give Thirty Days of Prompts a go than today?! (Today happens to be the first of the month).
Whew, I should’ve have eaten both halves of that avocado panini sandwhich from the Middle Eastern food truck in Sunday’s Melrose Place Farmers Market. And that large matcha on top… I feel swollen. Okay, let me go.
This corner of the Internet, aroundwithTK, is currently serving as an exploration project of self, a writer and creative, T. Krystal Greaux. Other writers have readers; here, we’re riders. Thank you for coming along and I hope you’ll stick AROUND.