Last night I was taking a break from
La Grande Jatte-fest at the bibliotech. Lying on the futon in my candlelit living room, smoking a j, drinking a hot mug of black coffee, watching
Eagle vs. Shark, and waiting for Lucy to come home with two French houseguests. All the while, Edinburgh grew colder--the biting wind picked up--and everyone just got that much cuter, with their now windblown cheeks and rosy noses, and their cable knit sweaters and hats.
Now it's FREAKOUT WORKMODE TIME. I should probably go back to the library to ensure that I actually spend the next few hours working instead of dicking around in my room being a pothead and drinking coffee and reading about something completely irrelevant to my MOTHERFUCKIN' SEURAT ESSAY*. Dope. I'm also forgetting how to spell things. Big time. But, the good news is, I don't have to ever think about fucking Descartes' thoughts on GOD ever again! Really! Like, I just tried to think about it some more, and it physically, hurts me, so it's really nice to know that there's absolutely no reason that I will ever have to touch that information again, unless I want to voluntarily reach into my brain for it in order to rape someone in an awesome PHILOSOPHY DEBATE
So whatever. French people in my living room. What.
*Document is at this point hypothetical
These ladies make me want to start putting effort into dressing again, instead of just relying on the androgynous uniformity of men's attire lest I have to get out of bed any earlier than the last possible minute. They're amazingly chic.
"Yalta was barely visible through the morning mist, white clouds stood motionless on the mountaintops. The leaves of the trees did not stir, cicadas called, and the monotonous, dull noise of the sea, coming from below, spoke of the peace, of the eternal sleep that awaits us. So it had sounded below when neither Yalta nor Oreanda were there, so it sounded now and would go on sounding with the same dull indifference when we are no longer here. And in this constancy, in this utter indifference to the life and death of each of us, there perhaps lies hidden the pledge of our eternal salvation, the unceasing movement of life on earth, of unceasing perfection." -Chekhov, "The Lady With the Little Dog"
