Monday, October 18, 2004
Shortly before midnight some putz pulled the fire alarm. I stood outside in the wind with my arms crossed angrily across my chest as though I held everyone personally responsible for the unwelcome intrusion of my paper-writing. I procrastinated until the last minute in order to build up adrenaline for ideas, only to have my thought processes hindered. When I try to write something substantial (something not on a blog), I go through a whole process, akin to Pollock's drip-painting [I present a grandiose image of myself]. I returned, uncapped an orange Fanta (which tastes much more delightful than icky Fresca), and eked out one more paragraph before bedtime.
Today, because I knew I could get away with it, I played hooky from logic and mythology. The lectures cover the books, which I can read easily from the semi-comfort of my bed. Amy and Robert are sleeping in the room; I hope they decide to go to class so that I may sleep.
[Lauree Frances Keith concluded this diatribe at 12:03 PM]