Briefly (Shoe, Bar Fly)

I'm still running on California time.

At least I'm only physically tired. I hadn't realized how...utterly low. I was feeling. All. The. Time. Before. Emotionally.

And with my William Shatner impression out of the way, this: I have to get my list of data together for that paper I'm going to finish by flying through it in four days when I've had the whole term to do it? At least I've actually done the reading for a change, and have something to show my professor this afternoon if I hustle; I'll send it at five, like a real workday champ.

It's Not Your Fault: Disconfirming Identity Communication as Social Support for Survivors of Suicide, I think. Which is a lengthy title, but absolutely clear. Length is only Wrong if it confuses or obfuscates.

What is this catharsis of which you speak.

If I had been paying as much attention to my classes as I did to the freaking roleplay, last year, I wouldn't be out on this limb trilling this message. However, it is significantly repairing a key faculty interaction.

You can't say relationship, everyone assumes The Graduate when you say the r-word, nevermind that she's a married mother of three hyperactive young boys and hasn't hardly time to find socks that match, let alone think of doing anything improper.

No, you're a twenty-something female coed, so YOU MUST BE VULNERABLE TO SEDUCTION AND/OR A DIRTY SLUT.

We've come so far. Woo feminism. Way to not assume anything. Nice.

I was so sure this entry had a point. I'm gonna go write in my sketchbook and then hit the books IRL.

Oh, excitement.