Quick blog to ponder the question:

Why the fuck do we ruin ourselves by waiting

until the very last minute to try to do any work,

but also spend the time before that

in agony every time we look at the

shit we have to do?

Okay, why do I do that.

I have to write a concert review,

an essay on Flaubert's style in Madame Bovary,

and read through the Emerson Review packet for

this week and make notes.

That's only what's most immediate.

Much tea.

Such stress.

Bye!

• I think I'm probably going to spend all the money on my meal plan on hot apple cider at emcaf
• I'm gonna finally do some cooking tomorrow night I AM SO EXCITED. Going to throng to the Azn supermarket with all the ah mah's tomorrow morning to pick up all the stuff. xiao bai cai, tofu, maggie mee etc. Maybe even go for a run before (HA!)
• Colin's driving us to Amherst this weekend to go to the Emily Dickinson museum/house, so I can write an essay about the impact her living situation had on her poetry. I hope to get a gravestone rubbing (her's says CALLED BACK, okay how fucking ominous is that) and some sick teen witch/graveyard girl pictures on my disposable