Carleton Library, circa 3 a.m.

This is the first time in second year that I have been awake on the Carleton campus at this sort of ridiculously early hour in the morning. Granted, it happened enough times in first year that I should be well acquainted with the sort of lingering chill/fog/buzz that tends to settle in my brain around this hour. I'm happy because I'm going to be done for the semester soon, worried because (yet again) it kind of feels like I haven't dedicated all the effort I should have into my work...but I think I'm doing better than last year, so it's all up in the air. Mentally, I'm shot. Physically, deteriorating but learning how to survive on less sleep and food and more running around. Friendship-ly, everything's changing and I'm ok with that. Romantically...undecided and intentionally not thinking about it. Spiritually, I feel like I'm slowly getting better. Now that the self-diagnosis is out of the way, back to my comm paper. Or potentially travelling to the third floor and crashing until 6:30 this morning, at which time I'm headed home to shower, grab some food and textbooks, a power nap, and be back at school for 10:30. That's my life, folks. Not the worst, not the best, and not really all that exciting. Sorry.

Pro-Crastination

At the moment, I'm at a weird place. And I don't mean that in a metaphysical sense--although it fits there too--I'm sitting in my bathroom at home, typing on my laptop because the Olympics are going on downstairs and my essay's supposed to be going on up here, and this is the quietest place in the house. And I still can't focus. So I figured I'd talk on here, because sometimes that helps. To be honest, I don't expect it to. I've been working on this essay for the past three days and I have absolutely motivation. I couldn't care less about Stevens the butler and whether or not he's a reliable narrator in The Remains of the Day. I didn't hate the book, but I hate writing about it. I used to love writing-that's why I'm studying Journalism, that's why I have this blog...well kind of...the blog thing was more because I thought I should start liking writing again, and maybe it would take more practice to get into the habit and then the habit would make me like it.
Or maybe getting a good mark on my essay would be what it would take to start liking writing again. But you know how it is--the more it matters, the more I freeze up. The more I care, the more I can't bring myself to meet my own expectations. No, it's not particularly logical, but that's how it is.
Back on subject though.
Remains of the Day is a decent book about a guy who trusted the wrong people and subsequently has to deal with the fact that the guy who he gave his wholehearted loyalty to wasn't a good guy to follow. He refuses to acknowledge his emotions, and doesn't even seem to recognize them himself till it's too late. It's depressing, but simultaneously fascinating to get inside the guy's head.
But then, people who aren't emotional have always been fascinating to me. The repressers, the sociopaths who have no remorse...I'm jealous sometimes. I've always had a hard time lying, and more often than not, everything in my head is written in my face for the world to see.
Some days, it would be a relief to feel nothing.
That's kind of an emo note to leave off on, though, so I'll try to fix that: on the plus side, I'm getting an education, I have a roof over my head, I have indoor plumbing, and I have the freedom to write in this thing, whether it's anything really beneficial for the rest of the human race or not, and therefore, I have very little to complain about. Nothing really.
So. Enough stalling. Essay time.