(no subject)
May. 31st, 2007 04:12 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
bliumchikBy rights I ought to be writing my practice modern history essays and not reading about Bertrand Russell, but I'm once again afflicted with that crippling paralysis that accompanies any kind of deadline. I don't want to fail the HSC :(
I don't really want to move to Queensland either, but this house is honestly unliveable. If you got a psychic in here she'd recommend a speedy exorcism, or maybe just better feng shui, depending on your psychic. Of course no feng shui is going to neutralise my mother, and I pity the exorcist who has a go. We need to take her in to a mechanic and get her brakes tuned up, because she has a habit of pushing down so hard that they snap right off in times of crisis, by which I mean approximately biweekly.
In other news, the duck has faded until it looks like the result of a bizarrely sloppy sunscreen application, and feels sort of like a flat version of a bruise. I even went and bashed my arm against the bathroom sink to verify that, because the writer must accumulate and absorb every piece of experience in the hopes of throwing up something useful when staring desperately at a blank page and gibbering. Unfortunately in the case of Douglas MacArthur the relevant experiece is all in the stack of paper currently sitting next to me, all of which I should have read long ago, and which now is not yielding its secrets by means of being stared at in terror.
In conclusion, woe is me.
I don't really want to move to Queensland either, but this house is honestly unliveable. If you got a psychic in here she'd recommend a speedy exorcism, or maybe just better feng shui, depending on your psychic. Of course no feng shui is going to neutralise my mother, and I pity the exorcist who has a go. We need to take her in to a mechanic and get her brakes tuned up, because she has a habit of pushing down so hard that they snap right off in times of crisis, by which I mean approximately biweekly.
In other news, the duck has faded until it looks like the result of a bizarrely sloppy sunscreen application, and feels sort of like a flat version of a bruise. I even went and bashed my arm against the bathroom sink to verify that, because the writer must accumulate and absorb every piece of experience in the hopes of throwing up something useful when staring desperately at a blank page and gibbering. Unfortunately in the case of Douglas MacArthur the relevant experiece is all in the stack of paper currently sitting next to me, all of which I should have read long ago, and which now is not yielding its secrets by means of being stared at in terror.
In conclusion, woe is me.
