(no subject)

Hey! It's manduhchow's birthday today! Yay! Love for my Duh, who everyone should go back to calling Amanda. (Sorry about the whole nickname thing, Duh :p). HAPPY BIRTHDAY DUH!!! *g*




In other news, my head will not stop pounding and I don't think I'll ever finish this paper. One class tomorrow, two finals, and one portfolio. Not killer. I can do this.

Oh! And if you haven't yet, go recommend me some '90s songs!! Please?

(no subject)

Arrgh.

It's roughly 105 degrees in the library right now. I brought my disk with me so I could finish my paper, but I cannot concentrate on it. I think we should shut down the library. Mmhmm.

I'm tired. Worn out. Numb. Hot. Cranky.

We had our media board meeting today. I was dreading it, expecting not to get the money we desperately need and having to whinge until Dean Sayre took pity on us and gave us something. But it went really well, fastest meeting of its kind I've ever been to. Sayre must have been on the special crack or something. He gave us all the money we need, including the additional capital request we made for the Firestone tapeless video recorder. Which means next year all the programming we have will actually make it to air, since we won't be relying on anyone to come in and physically push play on the VCR. Plus, we'll have enough money to buy new cameras and completely switch to the digital DV system. Out with the crappy analog! OUT!

So I'm excited. I think Ashley and I are going to have our hands full next year trying to get everyone to step up and do their own work--among other things--, but overall I think it will be an excellent year. Good time to leave, too. ;)

And uhh. I have a paper to finish. If I don't finish, I probably won't pass this course. That would be bad. Very very bad. Yes.

More Margaret Atwood: The Blind Assassin

Reverie intrudes at intervals.

She imagines him imagining her. This is her salvation.

In spirit she walks the city, traces its labyrinths, its dingy mazes: each assignation, each rendezvous, each door and stair and bed. What he said, what she said, what they did, what they did then. Even the times they argued, fought, parted, agonized, rejoined. How they'd loved to cut themselves on each other, taste their own blood. We were ruinous together, she thinks. But how else can we live, these days, except in the midst of ruin?

Sometimes she wants to put a match to him, have done with him; finish with that endless, useless longing. At the very least, daily time and the entropy of her own body should take care of it - wear her threadbare, wear her out, erase that place in her brain. But no exorcism has been enough, nor has she tried very hard at it. Exorcism is not what she wants. She wants that terrified bliss, like falling out of an airplane by mistake. She wants his famished look.

The last time she'd seen him, when they'd gone back to his room - it was like drowning: everything darkened and roared, but at the same time it was very silvery, and slow, and clear.

This is what it means, to be in thrall.




When exactly am I going to be able to write like that? Can I get an estimated date or something? :P