Apparently, blog posts are the best method of procrastination. Because here I am yet again, at almost 3 in the morning, multitasking to escape my mundane, necessary homework. And let's face it, after two summaries and analyses of grammar-based articles, finishing the third and final one is becoming significantly more difficult.
Finally. This term - from hell, from death, from all ways possible - is ending. I thought this would never, ever arrive. I was beginning to doubt the continuation of time; I somehow managed to become sucked into the black hole of school never to be seen again. And now that I'm thinking more about it, I really haven't broken my rule to write once a day, because.... I have written so many words that I could have my head drained completely empty and there would still be words tattooed on the inside of my skull.
Sorry for the morbid vision there. I guess that's what sleep deprivation, constant analysis, and no power to think for yourself does: DELIRIUM. The time is nigh. Or is it the end? It could be both: The time of the end is nigh!
And now for the very sad news: when I move, I must go through my books and sell/donate whatever is easy for me to replace. I have to part with pieces of my soul. I cannot face it. There are still so many I have no cracked open yet. Their spines lay untouched, unbroken, their pages are unread, unperused. they have not yet had the love given to them which they deserve. They are new to life, and already I must give them up. Thankfully, I have a month to really grieve my loss. The good news is that I get to road-trip myself back to Houston. That's four days by myself in my car with my music, audiobooks, and my podcasts. Maybe, by the time I reach Texas, I will have learned to properly speak conversational Italian...
Anyways, you will be seeing much more of me soon. Once I return from the lion's den, alive but not unscathed, I will return to writing about my reading, and writing about my writing. Metadiscourse! It can be fun, no? Okay... Maybe just for the masochistic, literary, theoretical ones like me. Sometimes I wonder if there is someone else who tortures themselves in the same manner.
Theory, anyone? Foucault, Derrida, Saussure, Barthes, Wollstonecraft, Burke? No? Okay. I'll go have a theory party over here by my lonesome.... See you on the dark side (a.k.a. adult life).
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