One Last Push and then the dreaded dissertation

So, I have 1112 words left to write of my final essay of my degree and then it's dissertation til mid May. The sun is shining, it's Good Friday, and might well be a good Friday too, and I am sitting at a desk staring at a computer screen hoping beyond hope that I will think of 1,000 more words to say about Paul Auster's New York Trilogy.
At 3:30 I am meeting a friend for coffee, then I am going to a gig in which drummer-boy will be playing the drums (obviously) and then ALCOHOL. This essay WILL BE DONE. That is all.

Only 13,000 words left!

So enough nonsense, time to crash back to reality. My brain is not killing me any more and I have done my final (70%) Reading Childhood essay. It's OK, I am happy with it and it is printed. All that is left now is my final (also 70%) essay for my New York Century module. That aint gonna be easy, let me tell you! Then dissertation... but I will think about that later. It's all too much to think of at once. One thing at a time. One thing at a time. On a different note I am able to put on the smaller jeans that last month wouldn't get past my thighs. My hunger is clearly worth it! Booyah... I wonder how much more I need to lose in order to get the 'normal' graduation gown? Where is that damned tape measure?

Insomniargh

I cannot sleep. I have just got up from a very unrestful night and I am knackered. I have too many things whirling around my head, my stupid stupid head. I have a stabbing pain in my left temple that has been there for two days. I have a rash on both of my arms that I googled and one of the results was AIDS. The stabbing pain came up with a brain tumour. I have a mole on my arm that is raised. I swear it wasn't before. Skin cancer? I have this stupid essay to finish, another stupid essay to start and then the dissertation. I feel like a zombie. As much as I like zombies, I do not want to actually be one. No. I am looking my age, older in fact. I keep thinking about drummer-boy and I sure as heck bet he ain't thinking about me. Fool. I am going to school now.

I feel like: you're one to talk

I realise and appreciate that my friends are ultimately only looking out for my best interests but I really don't think that many of them are well-equipped to be doling out advice. When in the same room as the guy that I like, a friend turned to me and said 'you could do better'. That may well be her opinion but a few things: 1, I haven't, have I? 2, I like him, I think he is "better" 3, It is not YOUR taste that matters here and 4, I don't care what people do for a living. I care about who they are. As people. Does he have a heart? Does he make me smile? Laugh? I don't care that we can't talk about Dickens and Dostoyevsky. I can't talk about those things with 90% of my friends, but I like 'em anyway. I am not a booksmart, geek-head that can only talk to other booksmart, geek-heads. I am a billion other things, as is everyone. I appreciate that my friend is concerned that I only like drummer-boy because apparently (although not apparent to me) it is obvious he likes me. I certainly don't think that he dislikes me... My friends wondered why I wasn't talking to drummer-boy last night. I feel like I couldn't 'duck them out' for the sake of a chat with drummer-boy (or indeed any boy). So, you know what I am going to do? Let me tell you. Let me try this one thing before I send teen-y messages on Facebook and gush about 'how great you guys played on Friday', coz I might throw up... I am going to go to the next gig early, and alone. That way SOMEONE will have to talk to me and we can see if it is him. And if it is him then I think that might be the best thing, hey? Well it'll be something. And in the meantime? I still got 15,000 words of essays and dissertation to write. I AM BUSY!!!

When I was a child...

I used to think that I would have to go to the hairdressers everyday, when I was an adult, because I couldn't brush my hair. I thought that I would own a pair of dungarees for each day of the week. I thought that I would live in a beautiful flat and not need to tidy up when my mum came round, but would leave a pile of magazines spread out and I would neaten them up when she came in and I would apologise for the 'mess'. I thought that I would have a boyfriend who was 4 years older than me and had neat black hair and would like to listen to every brilliant thing I had to say (I was a wanker then, too). And although NONE, I mean absolutely ZERO of these things is true now or has happened, I am still very happy (despite my almost constant moaning) with where I am now and what I am doing and if all else fails I can always remember that I still say pretty brilliant things. Now to find the bloke who'll listen to those brilliant things... hmm...