Betas ain't shit but hos and tricks.

Have beta'd 3 (soon to be 4! fics today). Feel v. smirkily self-congratulatory. Bring it.

And by it I mean the Kareinina final tomorrow. shitfuck. At least the Professor likes my thinkingstuffs, my grade on the last final was as unfathomably sweet as it was undeserved. I thought I'd flunked it. I was tired when I took it and wandered off into a diatribe about behaviorism, and then stumbled into a ravine of hardcore Freudian analysis of Underground Man for no. good. reason. I don't even like Freudian analysis. Still, her tolerance for my bullshit bodes well. I think she grades me highly b/c the essays are so batshit and she must be somewhat entertained by my Sudden Urgent NEED to compare Tolstoy to Shakespearian romantic comedies in terms of cultural models in societies with high divorce rates mid-exam (I LOVE Shakespeare with every ounce of my sad nrd heart, but he, or actually? the genre he sometimes worked in, really could stop rom-com representing marriage as absolute completion and thus as death, thx). Everything I turn in for her is so 'My crack, let me show u et! Let me show you my crack!'

PLAY FEST TONIGHT! Everyone I know ever is acting or directing or producing or running around screaming just to feel included. Thank god I'm not committed to doing a damn thing for it , I'd be srs ded of busy. Though acting such epic lines as 'Um. Chickezie has AIDS." in years past will live forever in treasured memory. Nature's first suck is gold. Its hardest hue to hold, apparently, as Eli writes like, really good plays now, according to friends who have class with him? Wtf? How do you move from That Play With The Basketball Player to rocking work about clockwork marionette builders and existentialism in the space of three years? Hats off to Eli, I guess.

Betas ain't shit but hos and tricks.

Have beta'd 3 (soon to be 4! fics today). Feel v. smirkily self-congratulatory. Bring it.

And by it I mean the Kareinina final tomorrow. shitfuck. At least the Professor likes my thinkingstuffs, my grade on the last final was as unfathomably sweet as it was undeserved. I thought I'd flunked it. I was tired when I took it and wandered off into a diatribe about behaviorism, and then stumbled into a ravine of hardcore Freudian analysis of Underground Man for no. good. reason. I don't even like Freudian analysis. Still, her tolerance for my bullshit bodes well. I think she grades me highly b/c the essays are so batshit and she must be somewhat entertained by my Sudden Urgent NEED to compare Tolstoy to Shakespearian romantic comedies in terms of cultural models in societies with high divorce rates mid-exam (I LOVE Shakespeare with every ounce of my sad nrd heart, but he, or actually? the genre he sometimes worked in, really could stop rom-com representing marriage as absolute completion and thus as death, thx). Everything I turn in for her is so 'My crack, let me show u et! Let me show you my crack!'

PLAY FEST TONIGHT! Everyone I know ever is acting or directing or producing or running around screaming just to feel included. Thank god I'm not committed to doing a damn thing for it , I'd be srs ded of busy. Though acting such epic lines as 'Um. Chickezie has AIDS." in years past will live forever in treasured memory. Nature's first suck is gold. Its hardest hue to hold, apparently, as Eli writes like, really good plays now, according to friends who have class with him? Wtf? How do you move from That Play With The Basketball Player to rocking work about clockwork marionette builders and existentialism in the space of three years? Hats off to Eli, I guess.