lolamatopoeia

This weekend, we (me, Tudor, and the dogs) made the long trip up to North Bay. I wanted to check out the town and the university campus, but the main goal this weekend was to find a place for me to stay this Fall. I needed that out of the way since I'll be leaving on my trip soon and won't be coming back until mid August or so. Speaking of the trip, I really need to plan that. It turns out that I'll be going to SE Asia with a friend after all - that means I need to get shots and gear and finances lined up and plans. Ah!

( Anyway, the weekend )

Right now, unfortunately, I'm sick. I've been sick on and off this weekend and it really kicked in when we got home yesterday. Being sick right now just ticks me off more than anything because I've got so so much to do. Soooooo much to do!

I slipped the worst essay I've ever written EVER ever under the door of my tiny teacher's door today and scurried off to class where I learned about Dry Lips and Kapuskasing and rape scenes and crucifixes and something about women wearing big boob plastic prosthetics and big butts and big baby bellies and liquoring it up behind white screens as told by a german girl with acne scars and pocahontas hair.

I somehow wound up in the grad club after class after the birthday girl met us in the hall wreaking of vodka and citrus, giggling and leaning against someone's office door. I drank a lot with my lesbian transvestite friends and my shy birthday girl who read my palms and were like - you very creative, get writing, you get big money, you're where you belong, live long life, you get babies, ooooh you're in love! - and we talked about dickmen jerking off to theories that no one understood in a presentation that most of us left halfway through because he'd run an hour and a half about gooble degoo crap that made me wanna smash my head against the desk and smash his hand against the old sony laptop he kept tap tap tap tapping and we laughed about our hatred for the most intimidating class ever and the worst essays we'd ever written EVER ever. I tried to explain my essay and they were all like 'oooooh sounds ineresting' and I'm like yeah, SOUNDS LIKE! Blleghg.

We chased down our shots with more liquor in ice and clear glasses. I think i remember taking a glass home, I should check my backpack. One girl told me about how lesbian relationships develop and how she wants to cuddle. Another girl told us about her screaming fights with her Marlene Dietrich-loving soon-to-be ex-girlfriend who called her selfish and too involved in school and told her she cares too much and she's NOT ALLOWED TO WASH THE DISHES ANYMORE since she's now a guest at home and SHE GETS THE CATS!! and by the way, WE'RE NOT GAY, it says so in the contract, and we're like - dude, you're gay.

And then I watched the two of them rub each other's thighs under the table and make blushing googly eyes (class next week will be awk-ward!) and then go home on the bus together as I waved goodbye to friends and sang Rod Stewart songs on my walk home. Now I can't stop the drunk and am eating chocolate cake.

Is it so wrong that I'd rather watch a pretty girl younger than myself get her mammaries mildly molested at an awards ceremony, or view images of rich and famous people I don't know who either need some support or some deflation than read a large 18th century novel which will make up a part of a twenty-page essay due in twelve wee days?*

Yes. Yes, it most definitely is.

Especially since I've yet to type a single sentence related to said essay in my word processor. Especially since I woke up in a cold panic early this morning having dreamt that the next twelve days had magically disappeared as a result of poor time management. Especially since I only faintly remember my alarm clock whispering 'GET THE HELL OUTTA BED INGRATE' this morning, between dreams, as I had fallen asleep with earplugs in my ears yet again. Especially since certain visitors from Waterloo will be a-visiting in a few days and this lady needs to dance!

So Laura, it is now the time to stop gazing at boobies and get to work, for goodness' (and lord academia's) sake. Now wipe that damn smirk off your face and make yourself a coffee.

*as a side note, was it so wrong that I laughed near urination at the story of a man reading a poem entitled 'Ode to the First Woman Who Swallowed My Cum' at the Grad club, while the other feminists in the room scowled?