The other night, my friend’s poor dog got into her bag and ate a big thing of chocolate covered espresso beans. Hazel’s a wiener dog. Though medical assistance was procured, Hazel spent the night tearing around the apartment, barking, and being a total spazzoid freakball.
I feel for Hazel. Hazel is a metaphor for me.
I’m happy to report that I presented my prospectus on Monday, it was slightly nerve-wracking and intense but motivational and calming and good. My advisor: totally intense and brilliant. The woman wrote 2,000 poems for her first book and whittled that down to something like 48 poems for the final collection. She’s bionic. A machine. In my meeting, this woman told me I need to chill out a little, that maybe my first assignment should be to spend a whole day on my couch watching bad movies.
It was kind of a relief—it’s been hard to get out of overdrive. But now that prospectus is done and I handed her my paper, my plan, my application, and a stack of something like 100 poems (and thesis hasn’t started yet, but this is expected), I just get to write. I’m tired of writing about writing and making a plan that I know will change anyway. Now I just get to write it on my own time and read what I want to read. I feel better.
Oh, and the haircut? Apparently I now have the same hairdo as Posh Spice. I’m told this is a good thing. Maybe people should start calling me Spazziod Spice. We could be sisters.
I feel for Hazel. Hazel is a metaphor for me.
I’m happy to report that I presented my prospectus on Monday, it was slightly nerve-wracking and intense but motivational and calming and good. My advisor: totally intense and brilliant. The woman wrote 2,000 poems for her first book and whittled that down to something like 48 poems for the final collection. She’s bionic. A machine. In my meeting, this woman told me I need to chill out a little, that maybe my first assignment should be to spend a whole day on my couch watching bad movies.
It was kind of a relief—it’s been hard to get out of overdrive. But now that prospectus is done and I handed her my paper, my plan, my application, and a stack of something like 100 poems (and thesis hasn’t started yet, but this is expected), I just get to write. I’m tired of writing about writing and making a plan that I know will change anyway. Now I just get to write it on my own time and read what I want to read. I feel better.
Oh, and the haircut? Apparently I now have the same hairdo as Posh Spice. I’m told this is a good thing. Maybe people should start calling me Spazziod Spice. We could be sisters.
1 comment:
Baby, I'd call you Snazzy Spice. Posh is way too skinny these days. See "Go Fug Yourself" for evidence.
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