December 8, 1998.

I am in essay HELL.

Really. No fooling. I can't stand the situation I'm in now. Every hour, I become more convinced that further academia is not the route for me. Granted, marking essay outlines of 9th graders based on the 3 paragraph argument scheme doesn't seem swell to me either, but what are you gonna do?

I'm saying that a lot lately, aren't I?

I have the beginnings of a headache. I'd rather be anywhere than here. The Boy is scheduled to drop by in a couple of hours, and I'm trying hard not to kill time between then and now. Because what I really want is to be lazing around with the Boy, like we did in the summer. Days of nothing but pizza and music and a bit of necking (well, we were in his mom's house after all). I'm working on being telepathic, you see, and I'd rather be practicing with the Boy than writing a stupid essay that I already hate about Alexander Pope and the sonnet form (no, don't ask).

I've done the dishes. I've cleaned the bathroom. In between bouts of Freecell, I roam the apartment like grazing kine. Except that I have very little food worth eating right now. Except no-name crackers.

Fuck. Okay, only 4 more to go, right?

Right.