Thesis, tripping, fucking, dealer, uno
Come on...three, two, one, let's jam!
It's 2:24 in the morning and I'm riding on a paper-writing high. The only thing I've got running in my veins is Red Bull and the sweet acid-trip that is four hours of sleep and 23 windows of academic journals open on my browser, each begging to be handled roughly, thrown down and plucked of their knowledge and words, waiting to see if they'll be made mine or cast aside like vile refuse. Oh, Mainichi Shinbun polls, you mercurial vixens, giving me glimpses of your hidden treasures then denying their existence on the Stanford Research Databases--why art thou yet so fair? Shall I believe that unsubstantial death is amorous, and that the lean abhorred monster keeps thee here in dark to be his paramour?
Fifteen hours and I'll be whisked away to San Francisco, thrown into the barbarian crowd of Arctic Monkeys fans at the Warfield, fighting with tooth and nail to get to the very front of the brutal hoarde. Alex Turner, croon those clever lyrics while I'm close enough to appreciate your wit in spite of your spotty face. Andy Nicholson--despite being the "heartiest" member of the band, your extra 25 pounds hides a delicate constitution and I understand completely why you'd be too exhausted to join the American tour; godspeed to you. Jamie Cook, Matt Helders, one of you is hot and one of you is not but I can never remember which and don't think I'll learn in time for your show--I'll take both of you back to my dorm room and we'll have some fun on top of a volume of Elizabeth Miller's "What's in a Condom?--HIV and Sexual Politics in Japan." It'll be marvelous.
In other words, I have someone coming over to my room with an XL mug of french-pressed Kona coffee and some freshly shipped acai berries. Here's to another all-night(morning?)-long thesis-gasm.
Oh, yeah. This is what it means to be a Stanford student.
It's 2:24 in the morning and I'm riding on a paper-writing high. The only thing I've got running in my veins is Red Bull and the sweet acid-trip that is four hours of sleep and 23 windows of academic journals open on my browser, each begging to be handled roughly, thrown down and plucked of their knowledge and words, waiting to see if they'll be made mine or cast aside like vile refuse. Oh, Mainichi Shinbun polls, you mercurial vixens, giving me glimpses of your hidden treasures then denying their existence on the Stanford Research Databases--why art thou yet so fair? Shall I believe that unsubstantial death is amorous, and that the lean abhorred monster keeps thee here in dark to be his paramour?
Fifteen hours and I'll be whisked away to San Francisco, thrown into the barbarian crowd of Arctic Monkeys fans at the Warfield, fighting with tooth and nail to get to the very front of the brutal hoarde. Alex Turner, croon those clever lyrics while I'm close enough to appreciate your wit in spite of your spotty face. Andy Nicholson--despite being the "heartiest" member of the band, your extra 25 pounds hides a delicate constitution and I understand completely why you'd be too exhausted to join the American tour; godspeed to you. Jamie Cook, Matt Helders, one of you is hot and one of you is not but I can never remember which and don't think I'll learn in time for your show--I'll take both of you back to my dorm room and we'll have some fun on top of a volume of Elizabeth Miller's "What's in a Condom?--HIV and Sexual Politics in Japan." It'll be marvelous.
In other words, I have someone coming over to my room with an XL mug of french-pressed Kona coffee and some freshly shipped acai berries. Here's to another all-night(morning?)-long thesis-gasm.
Oh, yeah. This is what it means to be a Stanford student.