If I were an artist

I'd make a big art piece that is entitled "I don't get it". I can't tell you what it would be of exactly, (I know, but I can't tell you) but it would certainly be BIG.

And then I will have a follow up called "So there you go". This would make it a little more postmodern in the hope that people might think I'm just being ironic rather than sardonic and get confused by the vagueness and not feel sorry for me later when THEY finally 'get it' and I'm over it.






Yeah, I probably don't make any sense to you right now, but that was never my aim anyway.
If you think I do, you are doing it wrong.

Getting Things Done

I got my essay in. I got it back.
My lecturer pulled me aside after my tute to say my work was exceptional.
There are only a few other things in life that make my heart race like it did when I got to hear that so I'm puttng the sensation up there in high regard with them.
Now I'm planning my attack on my final essay.
It feels good to have a sense of purpose at the moment.

Productivity hits an all time low.

Blank walls prove to be a potential distraction.



Initiate damage control.

I am going to stop procrastinating tomorrow

I worry sometimes that this will be my epitaph:

"She should have died hereafter:
There would have been time for such a word
Tomorrow, and tomorrow, and tomorrow,
Creeps in this petty pace from day to day,
To the last syllable of recorded time,
And all our yesterdays have lighted fools
The way to dusty death. Out, out, brief candle!
Life's but a walking shadow, a poor player
That struts and frets his hour upon the stage,
And then is heard no more. It is a tale
Told by an idiot, full of sound and fury,
Signifying nothing."
WS

Hmm, I hope not.
Though I must admit, I do find the sound of all those 'tomorrows' dangerously attractive.



Perhaps this is more apt:

"Live, drink, be merry, love the reeling midnight through,
For tomorrow ye may die, but alas we never do."
Dorothy Parker

...

Yes, somehow planning my burial arrangements has become a pressing task that requires more of my immediate attention than a essay that was due last week. Incredible.

I nothing am.

I love that line.

I've been writing an essay on King Lear and nothing and fast going mad in the proccess.

I'm convinced Shakespeare was an existentialist

I want to be an existentialist

Nothing nothing nothing

words words words.

...


Bloody Hell, I've read a lot of bullshit over the course of my BA but this?!:


"In our own century Australian mothers and fathers in the outback have routinely eaten their infants."

Rosenberg, M., "The Masks of King Lear" (1972).