I am psychic. Random things.
So I haven't watched the trailer for the SPN season finale cause I like to be spoiler free, but apparently it suggests that Ben becomes a hunter. Cough. Points to ongoing fic. :D. Well I suppose it wasn't that hard to predict, but well. I'm cool.
Anyways, not much going on except work on my Phd is kicking my ass because the cultural theorist Bourdieu has totally dominated the way people think about fan studies, and I kind of breezed in full of all these ideas about how I'm gonna use Foucault, and my supervisor is all, 'I support you but you need to make your case for why you're abandoing Bourdieu for Foucault', thus forcing me to read a shitload of Bourdieu in order to explain why I'm not using him, and I hate it, and I call him The Angry Determinist. Bourdieu does not know what fiction is. He thinks every novel is a realist social treatise. Reading his books makes me want to hit my head against a wall. The upshot is I have to produce this essay explaining Why Foucault is Better which will probs get cut up and inserted into the Phd at various points. I love Foucault though. My brain is in love with his brain. He's dead though. :(.
For my birthday I got a cat tree and a new camera amongst other things, including a t-shirt that says 'Pugs not drugs', which I liked in the shop but couldn't buy because of my resolution, so S bought it for my birthday. :). I love it. Even the small is big though. (Srsly, vanity sizing is Out Of Control. I've magically lost about 2 clothes sizes in the last ten years. If this keeps up I'm going to be a size zero soon. I DO NOT WANT TO BE A NON-ENTITY. PUT CLOTHES BACK AT THEIR PROPER SIZES, PLZ, THANK YOU. It's pretty insulting to imagine all women are so fragile and shallow they can't bear to know their real clothes size. Ugh). So I will try to post some pics of kitties on the cat tree soon. It Iz Belong to Miss Zara, but she permits Sammy on it too. Zara has turned out to be just the loveliest cat - she's in my lap as I write this, burring and rubbing on me. She burrs - it's deeper and rumblier than a purr. The funny thing is that Zara, who is little and dainty, has a big loud MEOW, and Sam my big boy has a tiny, squeaky, 'meh-eh-eh' voice. Sam is the public relations cat though - he's friends with everyone, whilst Zara is sort of a one-person cat. She's not very sociable apart from with me and Sam.
Oh yeah and I'm 24. That means on my next birthday I'll be as close to 30 as I am to 20. :O. Well, I have a job (though not much work this term as the undergrads are doing exams), I'm doing a Phd, somewhere to live, friends, and cats. I haven't killed anyone, gone to jail, died, burned a forest, alienated my remaining family members, gone bankrupt or run over a fuzzy animal. I guess I'm okay with being nearly halfway to 30. Funny how you wonder what it's like to be a certain age, and you get to that age, and then you're still you, and you're part of the definition of what it's like to be that age. (OMG, this is so cute, Zara has now turned over and is in my lap like a baby, having her belly scratched).
Okay, well I'd better go and do some housework :(. I leave you with a video of everything the Daily Mail has genuinely claimed will give you cancer. Enjoy.
Anyways, not much going on except work on my Phd is kicking my ass because the cultural theorist Bourdieu has totally dominated the way people think about fan studies, and I kind of breezed in full of all these ideas about how I'm gonna use Foucault, and my supervisor is all, 'I support you but you need to make your case for why you're abandoing Bourdieu for Foucault', thus forcing me to read a shitload of Bourdieu in order to explain why I'm not using him, and I hate it, and I call him The Angry Determinist. Bourdieu does not know what fiction is. He thinks every novel is a realist social treatise. Reading his books makes me want to hit my head against a wall. The upshot is I have to produce this essay explaining Why Foucault is Better which will probs get cut up and inserted into the Phd at various points. I love Foucault though. My brain is in love with his brain. He's dead though. :(.
For my birthday I got a cat tree and a new camera amongst other things, including a t-shirt that says 'Pugs not drugs', which I liked in the shop but couldn't buy because of my resolution, so S bought it for my birthday. :). I love it. Even the small is big though. (Srsly, vanity sizing is Out Of Control. I've magically lost about 2 clothes sizes in the last ten years. If this keeps up I'm going to be a size zero soon. I DO NOT WANT TO BE A NON-ENTITY. PUT CLOTHES BACK AT THEIR PROPER SIZES, PLZ, THANK YOU. It's pretty insulting to imagine all women are so fragile and shallow they can't bear to know their real clothes size. Ugh). So I will try to post some pics of kitties on the cat tree soon. It Iz Belong to Miss Zara, but she permits Sammy on it too. Zara has turned out to be just the loveliest cat - she's in my lap as I write this, burring and rubbing on me. She burrs - it's deeper and rumblier than a purr. The funny thing is that Zara, who is little and dainty, has a big loud MEOW, and Sam my big boy has a tiny, squeaky, 'meh-eh-eh' voice. Sam is the public relations cat though - he's friends with everyone, whilst Zara is sort of a one-person cat. She's not very sociable apart from with me and Sam.
Oh yeah and I'm 24. That means on my next birthday I'll be as close to 30 as I am to 20. :O. Well, I have a job (though not much work this term as the undergrads are doing exams), I'm doing a Phd, somewhere to live, friends, and cats. I haven't killed anyone, gone to jail, died, burned a forest, alienated my remaining family members, gone bankrupt or run over a fuzzy animal. I guess I'm okay with being nearly halfway to 30. Funny how you wonder what it's like to be a certain age, and you get to that age, and then you're still you, and you're part of the definition of what it's like to be that age. (OMG, this is so cute, Zara has now turned over and is in my lap like a baby, having her belly scratched).
Okay, well I'd better go and do some housework :(. I leave you with a video of everything the Daily Mail has genuinely claimed will give you cancer. Enjoy.