Hiatus... over.

Good morning, Evanston. You are rather lovely today. Makes it easer to convince myself that I want to be here, that.

Yesterday the kitten and I ventured out alone for long drive up from DC. As always, it was completely uneventful, which only makes me more sure that trucking school is in the cards for me after this Bachelor's nonsense. The only things that made the drive mildly interesting were, a) that Sadie insisted on riding on my lap, which is not illegal but probably should be, and b) getting honked at, gestured obscenely to, and otherwise harassed by three different trucks, all in Indiana. I am loathe to admit that this made me laugh... good to know that my tits look great from a steep vertical angle! Thanks guys! I should be a very angry feminist. Work on that, D.

The shape of my summer has changed so many times, it's hard to keep up. Right now I am attempting to wake up for an interview for an internship. In all honesty it will probably amount to a lot of data entry and odd jobs, but the fact that there's a theater attached to it makes me feel like less of a waste of life. Then comes the search for a part time job, followed by a search for friends who are here, I am no good at remembering.

Oh, and I finally saw a doctor, how about that. It seems that my mono is in end stage, which is great, but I could have told you that seeing as I am mostly feeling better. This is good for two reasons: the first, it is proof that the mono actually existed, ergo I am not crazy. The second, maybe this won't take over my whole summer, even if my liver and spleen are still slightly enlarged. As much as I hate anything medical, it's nice to get a (mostly) clean bill of health. That's a whole arena of anxiety that can be eliminated for at least a few months.

god bless early evening margaritas, but sometimes they are not even enough to knock me out.

Sometimes I wish I could turn my brain off. Often, in fact. It is nearly two in the morning and I am exhausted, but there she goes anyway, whurr whurr whurr.

It is the end of the quarter, and there are many papers due. At times like these I wish our English department were less legit, and more like the crones with smoker's rasps I imagine in cinematic greyscales. Instead I have all sorts of creative papers due, when I'd almost rather blow through ten pages of analysis and be done with it all. That's what Mr Feeny would let me do. Come on now.

Is it possible to get jobs without lying on resumes? Not that I'm considering it, but after a week of scanning want ads, it has become apparent that I am not even qualified to sell you shoes. Having kind references will probably do wonders, but having no useful skills or work experience (besides managing theaters and asking you if you have a minute for the environment) is no longer cool.

It is possible that I am awake because of Anne Carson. I've been rereading Autobiography of Red, and it is wrecking me again, to the surprise of absolutely no one. Fact: quality creative non-fiction is just poetry for people afraid of line breaks. That's why Carson is ours, and you can't have her. You neither, fiction. As much as I grumble about law school all the time, I secretly know the arts have me because I love the feeling of being emotionally destroyed by something and only being 35% sure of the reason. I want to unlock the secrets of that, but only in the making, I never want to read for it. That whole deal is where poetry wins, too... there is a thousand times more going on than you know, or want to know, but damn if you don't feel it.

I have a great fear of remaining massively unproductive. And no follow up to that assertion.