April 29, 2006

• The Malcontent

  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.

  • 1:40 am
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