It must be finals week, because I have managed to do any/everything to avoid facing the paper due in my (thoroughly, insanely* awesome) Hawthorne class tomorrow. I've changed the bedding, picked up the shrapnel from the floor in Jack's room, remembered to take my medication, cleared off the top of the dresser, including the stack of papers that have been sitting there since I came home from Blogher '10 and emptied my bag of papery things and placed them in that position, never to be more than shifted from one dust-squared space to another, UNTIL TODAY, and also? I petted the cat.
I even considered vacuuming.
It all smells to high heaven of rancour and paper-writing fear. And, fine, some sugar from the fluffy he-beastie. Which I kind of needed after all that effort.
I sensed the return to school would occasionally prompt me to blog, simply as a reul-breaking maneuver (like JUST THERE, WHERE I DELIBERATELY MISSPELLED "rule," because FUCK YOU, SPELLING). I was not incorrect. It's fun to set my own parameters**. Shit. That looks misspelled. I REFUSE TO MISSPELL ON ACCIDENT. THOSE ARE NOT MY REULS. THOSE ARE SOMEONE ELSE'S. PROBABLY THE PATRIARCHY'S.
Listen. I *have* been spending a lot of time within a modern academic setting. If I didn't occasionally reference the patriarchy in libelous fashion, I think they'd suggest I wasn't doing it right, and then what? THE PATRIARCHY WOULD EAT ME ALIVE. Or some professors. With a fine chianti. Only, it'd be pinot noir, because hello, this is fucking Oregon, bitches. WE CREATE THE BITCHIN PINOT NOIR. TO DRINK WITH FRESHLY-SLAUGHTERED STUDENT. LOCALLY SOURCED.
(Okay, so the all-caps thing? Because I'm making my own reuls. IT'S HAPPENING. ALL OF IT.)
So. I have this paper due tomorrow? And I'm blogging to remind myself that I can move my fingers across the keys and whole, nearly-properly-spelled words will appear, because somehow when it's paper-writing time, I grow insensible to my formerly-acknowledged ability to write papers that nearly always garner semi-successful grades. I do this because I care. About myself. And my grades. Because I like A's. I like the way they look on the white background. It's the triangle, I think. Is that a suggestion of my formerly-subverted urge to covet triangles, because I'm actually a lesbian? Because dude, WOAH, INSIGHT: a hastily-scrawled ink-pen (ink blot?) B looks like balls. ANDI HATE B's. OH MY GOD I'M A LESBIAN. Wow. All I had to do to realize it was to go back to college at 38. Because somehow my age is relevant to this. In that it makes it sound like I'm trying to be serious. I love trying to be serious. It's my favorite. What was I saying?
OR. SECOND, EQUALLY ENLIGHTENED THEORY regarding my love of the A: I'm narcissistically enamored of my own triangle, my own vag, and therefore I cannot love anyone, ever, and am destined for a psychologically disconnected freefall, a la Marion Crane in Psycho (why, yes, I am currently enrolled in a Hitchcock course).
So what have we learned here today, everyone? That I am either a lesbian or a rape/murder destined narcissist. A's have meaning, is obviously the most important lesson.
OH my god, I have just offended lesbianism. Haven't I? I mean, my entire fucking post is offensive, in that it's terrible and mind-numbing, and for that I apologize, but I especially apologize to lesbians for having included them in this terrible post, because I love lesbians. I have occasionally been one. Big fan. (Thank heaven I didn't say what I was going to, just there, the thing I usually say, about puffy foam fingers. That would've been awkward after having mentioned having been occasionally a lesbian, back in the day, when I was single and it was allowed. By my singleness. Because my husband isn't a fan. Of my being a lesbian. Or a heterosexual. Mostly I'm expected to be solosexual. With him. HE'S SO WEIRD AND POSSESSIVE. By which I mean, he's a normal dude. Who enjoys pretending I was a virgin when we met. WHICH I WAS, IF IT EVER COMES UP. )
Oh, my god, please don't ever tell him you know me. The ribbing. The RIBBING I will receive. He likes to rib. That sounds like a sport. Or dinner.
I haven't been sleeping well lately.
I have made up 98% of the items in this entry, by the way, so please to not crucify me for being insane or rude, as I'm mostly just terribly stupid and underslept. And afraid to write my paper.
Does anyone else want to write it for me? Because if you do, do me a favor and include the barest mention of Miriam/Hilda/Kenyon/Donatello/The Model from The Marble Faun, okay? I think they need to be mentioned, but only in reference to how much The Marble Faun is an odious piece of suck in comparison to The Scarlet Letter. Got it? OH MY GOD I DON'T WANT TO WRITE THE PAPER I DON'T WANT TO DON'T WANNNNT TO. sob.
If you're still reading, give yourself a gold star. And a pat on the back. In fact, go get a massage. On me. Tell them I'll pay for it when my ship comes in. (It's a pirate ship. Which Charlie Sheen is helming. OH GOD HOW? How did he creep in to this? I have managed to avoid nearly all contact with his name, even being on twitter nearly 'round the clock this week, and now this? My brain is garbage. Huey Lewis, I want a new brain. One that won't suck. One that won't make my crash my car, one that won't let me blog too much.)
There. There are your Eighties references for the day. Now let's put them back in their Eighties boxes and leave them there. YOU HEARD ME, CS. GET BACK IN THE BOX. AND TAKE YOUR CREEPY-ASS HASHTAG FODDER WITH YOU.
I need to go write my paper, don't I.
Stop looking at me all accusatorily like that. You and one other person are actually bothering to read this, so you obviously care enough about me to know I'm sensitive to accusatory looks. I perform much better when I know people love me than when I think they think I am a bottomless pit of suck. I am not the one who goes, "oh, you think I can't do this? JUST YOU WAIT AND SEE." I mean, I say that, and then I make you wait, and you see that I end up doing something else entirely and pretending I never said I was going to do that other thing, because FUCK YOU, AND YOUR FUCKING DARING ME TO DO SOMETHING I OBVIOUSLY CAN'T DO. So just instead please believe in me and say I can do it, and mean it, you and the other you, the two yous reading this, and thank you, thank you from the bottom of my heart. I was going to say "stupid heart," but then I figured you'd shake your head at me for using the S word while making tsk noises, and I don't really think my heart is stupid, so it wasn't even the right word anyway, OBVIOUSLY, my heart is probably the smartest part of me since it knows what to do even when I'm rolling in filth and eating cat food because I couldn't find the fridge. I think my heart is practically a genius. I just wanted to say it because I like the way the word "stupid" looks. And sounds. It's chunky.
Yes. Chunky.
Paper. Um. Yes.
Iloveyoubye!
* The reference to Hawthorne as being insane is rooted in his having questionable sanity issues. Which I think is awesome, since I, too, have questionable sanity issues, and I like meeting other people with equally questionable sanity issues, QUESTIONABLE SANITY ISSUES TIMES INFINITY.
** Seriously, did I misspell parameter? I don't want to know. I've misspelled too much, lately, and it hurts. It hurts in my upper arms. Like a rubber band wrapped around my -- biceps? Forceps? My 'ceps. There. Around the ol' 'ceps. Which is a TERRIBLY CONFINING AND UNCOMFORTABLE sensation. I imagine. Because I'm not actually experiencing it. Nor do I wish to. So don't make me.
I am never going to write my paper. Please call my professor and tell him I'm dead. Or living on Charlie Sheen's pirate ship. Because I dyed my hair blonde. Which qualifies me to be his next girlfriend. Therefore, I am soon to be dead, so just tell my professor it's already happened. It'll save time. A precious thing, since I've wasted approximately 74% of your current expected lifespan in asking you to read this. Also, please apologize to your therapist for me.
She knows why.
I misread lifespan in the second to last sentence as lesbian, it changed the entire thrust of the post.
If this is it...
Posted by: Amanda | March 09, 2011 at 11:51 AM
Doo-wah, please let me know, if this ain't love you'd better let me know
Posted by: Debbie | March 09, 2011 at 11:59 AM
Crikey, I love your guts to death. I can't wait to have happy hour(s) with you. Which hopefully do not involve lesbianism because (Hello!) my husband is extremely into the monogamy/virgin thing too. In fact I think that's a common trait of all husbands.
Concerning paper: following the aforementioned husband's advice, just put your fingers on the keys and start writing. Except the last time I did that, and then gave him my first draft to edit, he was all, HAHAHA! This is horrible, what is this? And I was all...
...
I just put my fingers on the keys and wrote stuff. Like you said.
So, do that.
Posted by: britni | March 09, 2011 at 02:41 PM
but the triangular vaginal A is also a vessel, and do you want to be a vessel, Deb? do you?
you probably do.
hawthorne. pffft. still despise the american romantics, no matter how you try to make me care. them and the american 80's. neither one makes the cut.
Posted by: Gwen | March 10, 2011 at 04:42 AM
I don't want a damn gold star for reading the whole entry. I want a fuckin' A.
Stop writing any papers for school and only write every single thought you have here, for my solosexual pleasure.
Posted by: patois | March 10, 2011 at 05:37 AM
That just read like my mind before a paper...minus the part about lesbians. I still have that going for me.
Posted by: No1knowshername | March 11, 2011 at 03:56 AM
Do you want a big, SCARLET A, perhaps? mmmmmMMMM???
Maybe your love for big red A's has more to do with your love of Hawthorne than your love of the lady business? Although it certainly could be both. I mean, I like them both. Which my husband knows, but also likes to pretend he doesn't.
Anywho, you are going to kick ass on your paper. Because you're an amazing writer, who oozes exciting, insightful prose, even when you're currently dead.
Good luck!
Posted by: roo | March 11, 2011 at 09:26 PM
Uh-oh.
I should've poted my good luck wishes on the 9th.
Guess I'm just...
gonna go BACK in tiimmmmme...
Posted by: roo | March 12, 2011 at 09:46 AM
I would apologize to my therapist but she changed her number. Funny....
Posted by: Tanya | March 16, 2011 at 02:11 PM
Okay so since I am reading this like DAYS later I hope you wrote that paper.
If blogging had existed as anything more than a few goths writing about their cats on LiveJournal back when I was in college, I never would have written a paper. Ever.
Posted by: Jaelithe | March 18, 2011 at 06:42 PM
you're funny, and i love you.
Posted by: slouchy | March 26, 2011 at 05:38 AM
I obsess,
My name is Barbara O’Brien and I am a political blogger. Just had a question about your blog and couldn’t find an email—please get back to me as soon as you can (barbaraobrien(at)maacenter.org)
Thanks,
Barbara
Posted by: Barbara O'Brien | April 28, 2011 at 07:20 AM