I had no idea I had that much sleep to catch up on.
The majority of my day was spent napping, the rest was spent reading Charles Stross novels.
Tomorrow, I will read Shakespeare and do that stuff I need to do for uni-related things. Now, I go back to sleep.
The reason I had to wrench myself from my bed at an ungodly hour this morning was a class on Richard III.
During the course of the day, in non-related situations, I’ve heard many references to said play. The best, and worst as it’s bloody painful, is my current gimpiness. After a stressful and awkward nap, I woke up barely able to move my left arm. I’ve somehow managed to bugger up my shoulder, so I have to walk around with my one shoulder hunched to minimise the OHLORDITHURTSSOMUCH.
I was tempted to lurch around my parents’ flat quoting the opening, but I don’t think anyone would have got it.
Anyway, seeing as today is wholly about Richard III for me, and I need a good laugh, here is some LOLbard:
Yes, I do think this is hilarious. When I say I have a ‘good’ sense of humour, I mean that I find almost anything funny.
Anyway, typing this was bloody agony, so now I’m going to sign off and do nothing that involves moving my one arm till it gets better.
It’s too early. The alarm my mobile phone decided to use was this trancey euro-pop crap, and it didn’t register with me. I assumed that it had to be part of my dream for the first few minutes, because no telephone of mine would have that crap on it.
But what I’m posting about is that Weird Tales rejected Conspiracy Theories.
WHY IS IT SO EARLY. I ONLY FELL ASLEEP FIVE HOURS AGO. LIFE CANNOT EXIST AFTER FIVE HOURS OF SLEEP.
I have two classes for the first half of this semester. The second half, I have three.
I signed up for five. One, it turns out, I don’t need to do, because I am British and therefore exempt from the rules that mere mortals live by. The second one I can’t attend because it’s full.
Now, this is understandable, of course. But I know that it’s going to be practically empty in two weeks’ time, because that’s how it always goes with lit classes, and no one will officially leave the group, they’ll just stop turning up. So there still won’t be any place for me, because all students are bastards.
Well, I’m just going to read the bloody books anyway. I won’t have the lessons, and I won’t be able to do the essays, and I won’t be able to do the exams, but at least I’ll feel like I’m sort of doing something useful.
University. I hate you, but I love you. But I hate you.
I arrived back in my city this afternoon. The new semester starts tomorrow, and I had Stuff to Do. I Did the Stuff–which included hauling over three hundred euro’s worth of very reasonably-priced books a few kilometres, something my shoulder now hates me for–and got into my comfy clothes.
I then grabbed one of the books I need to read for this week’s seNERRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRminars and despaired. I should havNERRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRe guessed that this would happen, bNERRRRRRRRRRRRRRecause I’d seen people lugNERRRRRRRRRRRRRRging stuff about in the hallways, but bloody hNERRRRRRell, why does that drilling have to be so louNERRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRd?
So I got dressed and went to uni, where I could just about hear myself think.
Before, I would have just put on my headphones and blasted some Eagles of Death Metal till the NERRRRR was drowned out, but I now realise that ears can only take so much abuse before they stop working.
Anyway, I’m now half way through The Crying of Lot 49 and the drilling has stopped. Ooh, and apparently there’s something on the telly tonight called ‘KILLING HITLER’. Yes, in caps. I am so there.
Well, achievement, singular. I’ve written about a third of one of the essays I still need to hand in for last semester. It’s the one about Jack the Ripper, and I only really wrote the easy part. But still, that’s a thousand words more than I had this time three hours ago.
Now I’m going to treat myself to half an hour of well-deserved procrastination.
When I’m baffled or eyeball-deep in concentration, I fiddle with my hair. The amount of grief that something is giving me can therefore be determined by looking at how fluffy my hair is.
I just finished reading articles on Marxist literary theory, and I have a full-blown secular jewfro. Also, I think cerebral fluid is running down my nose.