(no subject)
Do you ever have those moments when you're sitting there and suddenly wonder, why this? What's the point of being in this moment?
I just had one of those. I'm working on my Wordsworth paper, and wondering -- why this? Why me? Why now? From an ojbective outside perspective, the fact that I'm working this hard to create a coherent paper about subjects that don't entirely interest me as much as they should (and would interest me a lot more if I weren't sick) is almost sickly amusing. What am I doing this for?
But then I think about something one of my professors just said, albeit in completely different context: "When you've lived with this as long as I have, you have to believe that it matters."
And as much as I wish I could just turn in the phlegm-coated, snot-nosed, vomit-inducing mass that is my paper at present, I have these annoying things called "standards" that will not allow me to do so. My professors should really consider themselves lucky they never have to read intermediate drafts.
I just had one of those. I'm working on my Wordsworth paper, and wondering -- why this? Why me? Why now? From an ojbective outside perspective, the fact that I'm working this hard to create a coherent paper about subjects that don't entirely interest me as much as they should (and would interest me a lot more if I weren't sick) is almost sickly amusing. What am I doing this for?
But then I think about something one of my professors just said, albeit in completely different context: "When you've lived with this as long as I have, you have to believe that it matters."
And as much as I wish I could just turn in the phlegm-coated, snot-nosed, vomit-inducing mass that is my paper at present, I have these annoying things called "standards" that will not allow me to do so. My professors should really consider themselves lucky they never have to read intermediate drafts.