I AM THE MALCONTENT. Malevola? {refusetolearnit to this day} because of
this Elizabethan monstrosity that my brain's buckling against. My being
is refusing to write! My anadiplotic asyndetonic convoluted (Thanks,
Whitman, I finally since January understand you) interconnected
coherent argument-forming character cluster etcs. are taking hours and
agony. I have prosoufflepreparecrastinated, basically written letters
to every uncle aunt I have, done nothing concrete like research or
laundry in place, but have, like, spilled birth control pills
everywhere and fretted a lot. I really like John Marston and I really
like the security guards at work and I really like comparing myself to
other people then feeling so, so disillusioned then feeling lots
better--but I am so tired of writing this paper! I pinball from feeling
over-qualified to feeling unprepared entirely: I SHOULD READ MEASURE FOR MEASURE
AGAIN or something. Not something--I should write this beast. I am a
little over halfway done and it should take two to three hours, not
five days, not six study sessions, not tears and an hour just
walking... around... Whole Foods...

I was invited to a big film premier club schmooze party those Sex and
the City ladies would actually maybe consider attending and finally
feel like a member of my university community even though I won't go
because I have my IBUS final due the next morning killme. I keep
thinking I'm going to get A-minuses in everything and then doing
anything but the Marston monst. I don't know whether to love Collins or
hate him, and keep writing in red Sharpie on Post-Its all over notes of
less important than this could-lower-my-grader of a Marston mess like
Buy Grandmamma sweet plush Robin Red Breast for birthday!!! when it's
not until after after finals--summer classes will actually have
started!--and I will be so busy on a blanket in Central Park around W.
81st reading Thackeray or something and painting (having?) my nails and
drinking HARD Lorina's.

Nick and I spent two hours tonight under the covers talking
about/lusting after what we'd do on days home from school, be it true
truancy or actual infirmity. Right now I ache for one of my
grandmother's lumpy handmixed milkshakes and MY INNOCENCE. I can't
decide whether to take a million classes or one this summer, to go to
Scotland or instead to the islands or actually just to stay on this
silly island (through August). I should do something.
Ewwwwwwwwwwfinals.