Ran yesterday and aborted part way through due to massive painful calf-cramps and general inability to cause body to move further. Ran today, after a night of little sleep, lots of gin and cigarettes, and it was awesome. There is a lesson to be learned here, right? right?

Dear catastrophe waitress is a bullet lodged firmly in the frontal lobe of my brain, miraculously causing no major brain damage, but too precariously positioned to be removable.

Writing papers is much akin to pulling teeth or somesuch for me as I am thoroughly aware of my suckage, and yet impotent to unsuck the suckage. I've hit this analytic brain function blockage over the past couple years. I've looked back and the papers I was writing in highschool were much better than those I write now. I can't get my brain to go through the paper and find the point, the hypothesis, the argument, the analysis, and draw it together into an actual paper. They're all really just exercises that show I have some level of language use facility, and that I read the books. This is why I don't want to do literature. I'm not a masochist, and I don't like feeling stupid, and I don't know how to relearn or just learn the skills I need. Perhaps starting papers sooner would be a good step in the right direction. Finishing them sooner as well, leaving them time to ripen slowly in a brown paper bag on the windowsill.

I tend to assume that small talk is an attempt at flirting with me. It has the same uncomfortable feel and I can't imagine submitting yourself to that without higher motives. This all results in me assuming that everyone I meet has a crush on me.