I can’t help but think about Chicken Little these days.  I’ve spent the bulk of the semester, working like a dog; now that it comes down to it, I’m finding it harder and harder to motivate myself.  Right now, I should still be writing my stream-of-consciousness analysis of Eluard and Ponge; all the better to tighten this bad boy up into 10 pages of insightful, grammatically and syntactically coherent French.  But I’m tired, and I’d rather check my e-mail to see if GSS has sent me another e-mail. (He was out last week; I was out for most of last week, due to paper slacking – forcing me to bag work for 2 days so I could have 8 to 10 pages of insightful, grammatically and syntactically coherent French by the end of last Thursday.  Having had more than a week with no GSS-related flirting, I sent a little e-mail, and he replied.  Then I replied to his reply.) 

Thinking in French can be hard (maybe not for the French, but for me), and I find it harder to do so at home, where I have all sorts of distractions.  So tomorrow, after class, I’m holing up in the most uninspiring corner of the library and flogging this damn paper until I get at least 5 grade-ready pages.  Preferably more.  Which will be followed up on Tuesday with more corner-lurking, more flogging, and 5 more grade-ready pages.  After that, almost everything else is in English, so I’m hoping for an easier time of it.

I dream of the last day of my semester, finishing my last final, then heading off to some bar and toasting the completion of another semester with a drink.  Which will be followed by watching, waiting and checking my student page obsessively to find out my grades.  I’m so damn predictable.

But first, some literary analysis needs to be finished.  So I guess I’ll go.  Let’s hope I don’t spend too much time mulling on work crushes, application deadlines and the familial gantlet that is Christmas.

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