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sublingua | |||||
| The heart with a mind of its own.(Be present.) | The mind with a heart of its own.(It's past.) | The dream that is your waking life.(Go there now.) | |||
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waste and hooks
Sumpin' freaky with the ol' comp, as it's p.m. and not a.m. I am supposed to be doing anything but playing on the computer. I'm supposed to be writing a paper proposal for my postmodern lit. class. I'm supposed to be cleaning house so when the realtor comes tomorrow she doesn't run screamingly away. I'm supposed to be starting dinner for my sugar daddy, Max(imillian) (who knows me well enough to not expect dinner to be on the table when he comes home, of course). I'm supposed to be reading a play for the same damned postmodern lit. class. I'm supposed to...I'm not supposed to be whining online. I'm not supposed to touch the computer until all my chores are done. No, wait. I just remembered that I'm an adult. Fuck the chores. Fuck the dishes and the papers and the reading assignment. Fuck the academe. Fuck the system. (Yawn.) This rebellion has all the conviction of a nap, I assure you. I should really be doing something constructive, however, as this is going nowhere. (Or is it?) Why did I even come to this place if I had nothing to say? Boredom? Procrastination by proxy? Or worse? A quick assessment: I'm hungry. I'm barefoot in a house where a sick cat makes it dangerous to go barefoot. I have the stress of unfinished homework knotting my shoulders. I feel caffeine-edgy even though I haven't had any caffeine since noon or so. I'm even relatively well-rested thanks to a nap. I did, however, spend most of the afternoon reading bell hooks (Teaching to Transgress and Outlaw Culture), which may account for whatever unsettled feeling has settled in my psyche. (The paper is likely going to be about the postmodern nature of feminist literature, since you asked.) Is this me? I forget.
More lies:
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