the BRUTAL, UGLY truth of my FABULOUS, BEAUTIFUL life.
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9:17 p.m. + 2003-11-30 = the little engine that could [possibly, but most-likely]
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I am begrudgingly fumbling and feigning through the remains of my british women writers paper whislt composing, in my head, the brilliant apology letter to professor to accompany said-document for its tardiness. I tend to think of the erin dana method of paper-sizing-up: it's not quantity of words, nor is it number of pages... it's, how many inches are left? The answer: an ambiguous 5". 1" more for A Room of One's Own. 2.5" for Three Guineas. The remainder, a conclusion.
other things competing for my thoughts' attention: 22 through 31 of january... that's 9 days... that way-so leaves room for a jaunt to chicago and the judgement of ambryn; this weekend when and where the 4 parts become the whole and the daybreak of monday when and where the whole is fractioned once more; the in-passing, non-chalant comment i made to my mother... "I don't want to go to grad school next year"... and how much truth can be taken from that?; the other 54" of double-spaced writing that must be completed tonight (have mum's laptop and enough spare change to get me that bottomless cup of coffee at Perkins); the doctor's appointment tomorrow and the unspoken promise of antibiotics; why doesn't paul westerburg want me as his friend?
okej... half an hour... 5" of single-spaced writing... i can do this. i think i can, i think i can, i think i can.
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comments?? --->[thisaway]--->[[looks to me as though there are...]]---> 0 repercussions thus far
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[prologue] *** [epilogue] ***[plottwist!]
[[erstwhile]] ***** [[forthwith]]
