Bed Time!

I think it is about time to go to bed.

I've been working pretty hard for the past two hours and I held up a pretty solid pretense for working a few hours before then.  I have one full and one half section of my natural sciences take home test left.  The rest of it should probably be edited in the morning, but the answers are complete.  I haven't really started my social sciences essay.  My humanities essay just needs a solid edit.

I am trying to convince myself that I have enough work done to go to sleep and honestly I think I do, but everyone calls this week hell week.  Everyone is tweaking out about all the work that they need to complete and that's really all I've got.

Sure, I feel bad that I haven't really started my social sciences paper, but I have all day tomorrow and half of Friday to do it.

And I'm kind of sleepy.

Not absurdly tired by any means, but bed sounds nice.

Fuck it.  If tomorrow somehow winds up being absurdly stressful, I'll know better for next semester.

:)

Edit:

Nope.  See, this is why blogging was such a great procrastination method in high school.  I would post a crappy blog and then I'd be all inspired to do my work again.  Now let's see what we can make Joseph Black say about heat...

Hell Week

Hell Week,

They call it.

So busy.

Things to do.

Papers to write.

Tests to take.

Experiments to execute.

Plans to make.

Things to do.

So busy.

I walk through the museum

And look for apocalyptic horses.

When they appear in the dark

I stand to the side

And make notes about color and brushstrokes,

Ignoring everything I’d like to say,

Because if there is one thing I have learned

This semester

It is that no one has anything worthwhile to say about art.

Then downstairs to type type type

To write write write

And then across the room,

You look like Emile Hirsch.

You are wearing a stupid hat

A dressy shirt. 

A glossy black vest.

And, like a pompous asshole,

You are in the members lounge at an art institute.

But, like a pompous asshole,

I am in the members lounge at an art institute.

I didn’t pay for mine.

You have the beard

The eyebrows

The eyes.

Like Emile Hirsch

When he was pretending to be Alexander Sumpertramp

Who was Christopher McCandles disguised from himself.

Would you be

Could you be

Tick Tick Tick

I took your seat

But you didn’t notice

Because you were already gone.