Tagged: finals



And the vending machine in the library (open 24 hrs for the next few days) is almost empty. Vitamin water it is.


Bed is calling

One of the things I keep meaning to finish and then never actually finishing is what happened the rest of the night of It’s Like Live Porn! With a Lapdance!

Which is actually not even something that would happen any more because now that touching is optional, depending on dancer preference, there are curtains in the lapdance area. For the most part you can only see what’s happening directly across from you, and only guess at what may be happening around you; it’s a lot easier to distract and redirect with only one direction to worry about. I gave a dance Friday and I could hear the girls behind the nearest curtain giggling and slapping each other[1] but without an actual visual the guys don’t get as distracted. It’s really great.

But continuing that episode will have to wait.

Now, to celebrate the drawing to a close of finals–only about 20 more pages to write!–and the fact that I lived through my last presentation with more grace than I thought possible–nothing in my mouth, I only called one classmate by the wrong name and maybe no one noticed but him[2]in the Q&A section, and I didn’t expire or even cough up bloody phlegm on anything until after I’d left the room.[3] Yes, so now I am going to buy this book[4] and read it in bed and hope that I wake up tomorrow entirely cured.

[1] which gave me a flashback to the days of Hundred Dollar Dave, what a man! Truly worthy of his own post, which will happen someday, I swear. He used to pay us to paddle each other with hairbrushes, among other things, in the bathroom. It was like performance art, the louder you shrieked, the higher your tip.

[2] I HOPE

[3] truly I am reaching Marguerite Gautier heights (depths?) of illness, which is all great and romantic and everything since she’s one of my sex worker roots—I take my Romantics far too seriously—but it’s actually stopped being romantic. It’s mostly just horrible and disgusting.

[4] I was lying to myself when I said books would have to wait until after finals. My appetite for books waits on nothing. Not even grades and my future which is looking more and more like I’ll have to fall back on plan be, Trophy Wife.

What am I doing with my life

Inspired by Sarah Rees Brennan and the Rejectionist, and courtesy of the brain fog brought on by my latest sinus infection (I’m beginning to think either my apartment has toxic mold or my sinus health is inversely proportionate to my stress level, that is, as my stress level goes up my capacity to breathe and ultimately to function goes down and bam here I am again with my mucinex and my giant mountain of tissues, definitely someone you want to get a lapdance from), My Work Process:

Wake up.

Make coffee.

Put the new Santigold on again and blow my nose a bunch.

Daydream about steak. Wonder if it’s time to start eating red meat again. Compromise with eggs.

Debate driving to school where computers are faster, but in public, or patiently wrangling with my old laptop, which shuts down if I run more than one program at a time (still haven’t taken my macbok air in to get fixed. Really kicking myself over that one). Decide on laptop, for now.

Check work schedule. Same as always. Working with Regan, yes! Bibi still not back. Remind myself to start requesting Saturday nights, except not this Saturday because I have ballet tickets.

Facebook: still boring. Interesting books reviewed on the Rejectionist.

Remind myself that I can’t buy any new books until I finish the last two papers of the term, one of which (ahem, ahem) is due tomorrow along with a presentation for My Darling Professor who thinks I need to stop biting my nails. (The last presentation went better–nothing in my mouth!– but was still imperfect.)

Fantasize about not being in school, and how perfect Regan’s life must be. We sat in back swapping pictures on our phones Friday night: hers were of fun times, minigolf, and photobooths, mine were of my dog.

“Drop out of school, get a boob job, and be a trophy wife,” was her advice.

“My student loans are twice as much as a boob job!” I answered.

“Yeah, but with a boob job you’d probably recoup twice as fast.”

Go back to outlining paper due tomorrow. Wonder idly how I’m going to fit revisions in with my busy procrastination schedule.

Suddenly feel the pseudoephedrine in my nasal spray hit my brain. Also, I can breathe! Time to go work at the computer lab.

Starting next month when I only have one online Art History class (art credit bizarrely mandatory for graduation, I guess to make me a well-rounded individual? Please. My life is my art) I’m going to live the lazy and luxurious lifestyle I’m always hearing my coworkers talk about. Sleeping in, reading whatever nerdy fantasy I want, working four nights a week, and rapidly checking my debts off as I pay them, all Regan-style? I can’t wait.


It will look like this, all the time.