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- 2001-10-01 - 5:58 p.m. I am, admitably, once again slacking off on my essay. The damn thing is so boring, and yet, at the same time, so daunting. The problem is this: the class, itself, is boring. The topics are boring. The papers are boring. The teacher, however, is bound and determined to be a "difficult" teacher. Realizing he teaches a suck class, he has chosen to be nitpicky over little things, and give you zeros if you make the smallest error. I believe I'll get an F in that class, because I seriously have no clue what he wants out of our outlines. The man is nuts. In my other lit class, however (the sane one, which is a hard class, and is daunting, but for good reason,) we started Don Quijote today. There was some rather half-hearted grousing over this from the class--the book is thick as all get out, and we don't tend to like heavy stuff. I have one of the old copies (we had to buy our own) because my brother bequeathed it to me, and VK still is jealous over the cover art of mine: hers has some generiart painting of Quijote on a rock, mine, a bright orange border, some blank space, and in the center, a surrealist black blob. Mine, naturally, is cooler. It also has the bonus feature of maps of Spain. One thing about Cervantes is--while I cannot deny his good writing and slacker-like studliness--is that he's ruining my name over here. I'd carefully built up a reputation of a steady slacker, and everyone knows slackers can't write, right? In comes this Cervantes, with his fancy-pants prologue, and he's talking about being a slacker. And he's wrote. A huge. Book. >< MY NAME. TARNISHED. VK, naturally, upon reading that prologue began weilding the book at me. "Wrriiiiiiite," she commanded. I hid behind my copy. Stupid Cervantes. She's also doubling the slacker thing with the fact that I'm Irish, and Ireland tends to begat a lot of the literary type--Wilde, and Yeats, and all those. I need a more viable excuse. Like blindness, maybe, or paraplegia. Lord knows my slackerly ways are far too built for me to be even slightly tempted by that stuff-doing thing that those kids these days are going and doing. No stuff for me! Or at least no doing... Ahh! I just love the song "Waiting for the Miracle" by Leonard Cohen. It's such a beautiful, haunting song. Especially with the juxiposition of Cohen's deep, gravelly voice, and the two high female voices. Hmm. Why do I like these deep gravelly voices so much? Especially since they always wind up to be dirty old men? ^^; *listens to the song, over and over.* I want to marry a man with a voice like this; I'd make him sing every night. Baby, let's get married We've been alone too long Let's be alone together Let's see if we're that strong Let's do something crazy Something absolutely wrong While we're waiting For the miracle to come
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