Taking a Break
I'm home for Thanksgiving. And it is freezing.
Also, Zoë is visably a teenager. By which I mean she's maybe two inches shorter than me. At twelve. Also (and I'm saying this purely as an observation), I feel like her chest was... flatter in August. I'm going to hell, aren't I?
It's good to be home, anyway, away from classes. Sort of away, at least, given how much class-stuff I brought with me. I swear it was never like this before. Like I told thirteenmirrors, homework used to be a two inch pile of paper which I'd pick up from one part of the desk, move to the other, and that was the end of it. This semester, it's five inches of paper which does not weigh an ounce less even after I take three inches off. And whenever I get something done, I used to think "That's over with! Hurray!" Now, I'm torn between wishing I'd been doing the things I'd rather be doing, the things which feel like they actually matter, and stressing about about the heaping pile that remains.
I swear, my homework is reproducing while my back is turned. Sadly, it's probably too late to buy Modernism condoms. Although, really; American Romanticism is old enough to be his grandmother.
In high-school, senioritis meant less working.
Ok. I'm going to go find a jacket or something, and then really dig in on the rough draft of the prospectus which I need to e-mail out in an hour. I can bullshit write with clarity and brilliance on literature for five more pages by then, right?
I could sleep for a thousand years.