(no subject)

I have studied practically two days straight, and I still cannot shake the conviction that I'm going to fail this miserable intro philo final. You know the fainting goats? They're calmer than I am right now. I can guess that I'll get one essay on the history of epistemology, one on the Frege article, one bullshit totalizing one on the use of philosophy (which will only be hard because unless it's ethics, I respect it/find it somewhat interesting, but I really couldn't give a damn, now please lemme read the pretty Foucault, can I have Lacan yet? I've been a good girl.), and maybe one on particularism/methodism/G.E. Moore, which I might get through and might royally fuck up. I hate to bug Jer before noon (it rouses closer to four in it's natural habitat, when not in captivity), but I really need to calm down, and wierdly playing a game with him or Ben has become my major source of 'chill the fuck out.' Whereas I've determined Jer's awake-esque at the moment, Ben was smoking at 5:30 with me, and so will not return to the land of the living for hours to come. It's a neurotic activity, but hey, at least I'm not smoking.

Who wants to hit The Mill tonight? I think pitcher my treat, to celebrate the completion of this and prepare for the (count them) one, two, three papers I have to write this godforsaken week. Did I mention I'm not prepared for my German final on Friday? I'm not prepared for my German final on Friday.

This will all be over very soon. The rediculousness of dorm life. The shit of this semester. The neurotic, pathetic, driftless-without-work creature I've been reduced to by it. A blissful refrain, over over over. Completley alone, maybe me will fucking reassert herself and everything will be okay.

And I'm aware that was sappy and over-dramatic. Thanks.

(no subject)

I have studied practically two days straight, and I still cannot shake the conviction that I'm going to fail this miserable intro philo final. You know the fainting goats? They're calmer than I am right now. I can guess that I'll get one essay on the history of epistemology, one on the Frege article, one bullshit totalizing one on the use of philosophy (which will only be hard because unless it's ethics, I respect it/find it somewhat interesting, but I really couldn't give a damn, now please lemme read the pretty Foucault, can I have Lacan yet? I've been a good girl.), and maybe one on particularism/methodism/G.E. Moore, which I might get through and might royally fuck up. I hate to bug Jer before noon (it rouses closer to four in it's natural habitat, when not in captivity), but I really need to calm down, and wierdly playing a game with him or Ben has become my major source of 'chill the fuck out.' Whereas I've determined Jer's awake-esque at the moment, Ben was smoking at 5:30 with me, and so will not return to the land of the living for hours to come. It's a neurotic activity, but hey, at least I'm not smoking.

Who wants to hit The Mill tonight? I think pitcher my treat, to celebrate the completion of this and prepare for the (count them) one, two, three papers I have to write this godforsaken week. Did I mention I'm not prepared for my German final on Friday? I'm not prepared for my German final on Friday.

This will all be over very soon. The rediculousness of dorm life. The shit of this semester. The neurotic, pathetic, driftless-without-work creature I've been reduced to by it. A blissful refrain, over over over. Completley alone, maybe me will fucking reassert herself and everything will be okay.

And I'm aware that was sappy and over-dramatic. Thanks.

Spunk! (and Tactics)

I will write at least two papers tomorrow. Then I will take Thursday, maybe, to go home to see Meghan before she moves on Saturday. I think I have a sublet either in my house for next year or next door to it, moving in Saturday. I interrupted friends having a talk to get the lord of the land's cell number (For, what is this, the third fucking time? If I were any more prone to loosing stuff randomly, I'd be the Holy Roman Empire. And then I'd have two heads from my freaky bird neck. No fun.). Sorry guys. I felt a burning need to finalize, and by finalize I mean not sleep on the streets Saturday, so I highlighted jobs and possible fall-back sublets and made calls and left messages and generally was v. organized and Prussian about it. I think I will change my name to Grunhilde accordingly.

Said goodbye to John, who is a nice guy on my floor I'd sometimes walk back from class with when we'd bang into each other at the EPB, did alright on my final (except I skipped Locke, planning to go back to him b/c I 'heate him so good', turned in my paper and realized I hadn't finished him, leaving that page to read something like "Locke's epistemological project was ". Snicker.), walked Colin to his Italian final, chilled in Bowl with chai as icy as the artic reading It Happened in Boston. Which is fun because I was getting sick of Ginsburg talking about how disgusting he finds the prospect of sex with a woman. Thanks, City Lights Poetry Anthology. I remember being a freshman and really angry that I'd never write poetry like Ginsburg, that while I appreciate poetry I'm just NOT a poet. I haven't the delicacy for it. Starting to feel that way about the short story. Maybe I'm a novelist or an essayist. Maybe I'm a fry cook. I have seen the best minds of my generation consumed by a vat of corrosive vegetable oil.

There will be no one to play a quick game with me this summer. I may have to cultivate Bowl friends. But they're better players than I am, so it'll take gumption to be able ask to play. Spunk and/or a tactics book. Speaking of, was reminded why one of my favorite hobbies is Barista-watchin'. Quoth Hart: "I wanted to like them (reff. a band) so much more than I did. But they were fucking irritating." Maybe it's just his delivery. Hart is, down to the handle-bar mustache of glory, an early 1900's weight lifter or pugilist. Every time I see him I'm reminded of strong men from old circus posters or the "old fashioned exercise" guys from That One Episode of Family Guy.

So Astronomy and German II all summer, from 9:00 to 12:50, then work where ever I can get it. I may end up babysitting or working at a nursery. Or cooking. Something appropriately filled with woman-osity. Still, I should try for that comics shop position, if only for employee discounts of MADNESS.

Spunk! (and Tactics)

I will write at least two papers tomorrow. Then I will take Thursday, maybe, to go home to see Meghan before she moves on Saturday. I think I have a sublet either in my house for next year or next door to it, moving in Saturday. I interrupted friends having a talk to get the lord of the land's cell number (For, what is this, the third fucking time? If I were any more prone to loosing stuff randomly, I'd be the Holy Roman Empire. And then I'd have two heads from my freaky bird neck. No fun.). Sorry guys. I felt a burning need to finalize, and by finalize I mean not sleep on the streets Saturday, so I highlighted jobs and possible fall-back sublets and made calls and left messages and generally was v. organized and Prussian about it. I think I will change my name to Grunhilde accordingly.

Said goodbye to John, who is a nice guy on my floor I'd sometimes walk back from class with when we'd bang into each other at the EPB, did alright on my final (except I skipped Locke, planning to go back to him b/c I 'heate him so good', turned in my paper and realized I hadn't finished him, leaving that page to read something like "Locke's epistemological project was ". Snicker.), walked Colin to his Italian final, chilled in Bowl with chai as icy as the artic reading It Happened in Boston. Which is fun because I was getting sick of Ginsburg talking about how disgusting he finds the prospect of sex with a woman. Thanks, City Lights Poetry Anthology. I remember being a freshman and really angry that I'd never write poetry like Ginsburg, that while I appreciate poetry I'm just NOT a poet. I haven't the delicacy for it. Starting to feel that way about the short story. Maybe I'm a novelist or an essayist. Maybe I'm a fry cook. I have seen the best minds of my generation consumed by a vat of corrosive vegetable oil.

There will be no one to play a quick game with me this summer. I may have to cultivate Bowl friends. But they're better players than I am, so it'll take gumption to be able ask to play. Spunk and/or a tactics book. Speaking of, was reminded why one of my favorite hobbies is Barista-watchin'. Quoth Hart: "I wanted to like them (reff. a band) so much more than I did. But they were fucking irritating." Maybe it's just his delivery. Hart is, down to the handle-bar mustache of glory, an early 1900's weight lifter or pugilist. Every time I see him I'm reminded of strong men from old circus posters or the "old fashioned exercise" guys from That One Episode of Family Guy.

So Astronomy and German II all summer, from 9:00 to 12:50, then work where ever I can get it. I may end up babysitting or working at a nursery. Or cooking. Something appropriately filled with woman-osity. Still, I should try for that comics shop position, if only for employee discounts of MADNESS.