Nothing worse than an "I told you so"

Except maybe an "I told you so" that can now be recorded, free of consequence, by the government and used against me in some sort of criminal proceedings as a result of any one of several loopholes in the new FISA bill, which passed this afternoon.

Three guesses on which way the Senators from Illinois and New York voted, respectively. I'll give you a hint: if Obama ran towards the center any faster, he'd be legally required to proclaim a hardy "meep meep." If she even thinks about taking an offer for the VP slot I will pull my hair out, we cannot afford to lose her in the Senate if she is one of only 27 to vote nay on that steaming pile of legislation. Protection from illegal search and seizure isn't even one of those debatable privacy rights, it is right there in the Constitution, but who asked me. Between this and Obama's late term abortion horseshit of late, I am all geared up to vote Green and not lose a wink of sleep.

To try and temper bad news with good, or at least with amusing, I enjoyed the federal appeals court that cited Lewis Carroll in their decision in favor of the rights of Gitmo detainees. I haven't read the poem, although with a title like "The Hunting of the Snark" you know it's on my list. The citation, "I have said it thrice: What I tell you three times is true," is a pretty accurate description of the current media climate, wouldn't you say? I employ this logic regularly in repeatedly telling my roommates I will do the dishes, and I will say that it appeases in the short term. There's something satisfying to the implied admission that the current state of our civil liberties can only be conceptualized by a NONSENSE POEM. But when a major governing body quotes your work, that's when you know you've made it as a writer, for sure... I'd give my left arm to be referenced in anything written by Ruth Bater Ginsberg (swoon).

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.