Well, my preciouses. This is the most irresponsible weekend I've ever had:

Wednesday night I arrived back, thursday I spent pretty much doing all research. Productivity is hott. Friday I goofed off, bought a pretty pretty shirt, didn't write much to speak of, went out, got drunk from my first pint, wound up in bed with James. After rolling around on the floor. Got kicked out at four am, Saturday morning. Saturday I recovered, snoozed, sent angsty messages to Charlotte swearing off men, including a very drunken "Sometimes I would rather give head than my number," and lyrics of Dorothy Parker. Hummed "Fuck and Run" to myself. Kept going to computers to write, kept failing (too distracting). By Sunday, I had 1000 of 3000 words written, none of my Monday's class homework done ("Poems, schmoems, you can read 'em in class."), and not enough hours in Monday to compose 2000 decent words.

Monday's English class left me all manner of upset, because it was really good, and now it's over. Afterwards, for six hours, I stayed in the computer lab, nearly fainting with hunger at one point. I got up to 2000 words. I staggered home to give Charlotte a hug. I ate a bowl of bran flakes, wrote 300 words in Charlotte's room while drinking rum and cokes. "Bartender, fetch me another rum and coke." I have often pretended to be an east coast socialite, and failed. They were more rum than coke. These 300 words didn't make it into the essay as such, but the ideas did.

Then I went out. Dumb, dumb, dumb. 1000 words to write, going anyway.

Made out... with a boy. Went home... with a boy. I left at about half five, after he fed me breakfast, to write five hundred more words before trotting down (in the same clothes I went out in last night) to hand in my essay at nine. I finished it. Now I need a drink - it's five o'clock in the world somewhere!

2003-05-06, preciouses

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