Head, Meet Desk.

I must do six things by 9 am tomorrow morning.

Write a six-page paper on Andre Rublev, and the reflections of sainthood in Russian iconography. Which sounds sexy as hell, but ohgod I put it off until the last minute like an idiot--

Write a five-page paper on, wait for it, Miley fucking Cyrus. More specifically, Miley fucking Cyrus' infamous Annie Lebowitz photoshoot. Granted, I'm supposed to be analyzing the thing for feminism and gender fail, but still. Miley fucking Cyrus.

Write a three-page paper on my colonialism/Apocalypse Now OTP.

Send in my $100 deposit for Cambridge. It's totally probably happening oh my god oh my god!

Stop listening to The Hazards of Love, because it is raining outside and I am stressed and it's depressing enough without songs about fathers murdering their children.

Share this wicked book with you guys.

Tell me you wouldn't want to read this. Go on. Oh, by the by, it's officially the oldest book I have ever touched. 1837, baby.

In Which I Break A Bottle Of Low-Quality Champagne.

Salutations.

I have once again succumbed to the siren song of blogging. But this time, I have purpose! This time, I am attempting to chronicle my journey from a loser undergraduate to a loser graduate student. The main difference between the two states appears to be in the number of people who hit on you. After all, everyone knows that college students are tossing out their virginity faster than Ernie tossed all Bert's stuff out their apartment window after the ladder's little...indiscretion with Zoe. Graduate students, however, are just pretentious (probably) lesbians.

Luckily, because no one hits on me anyway, I have sidestepped this particular crisis altogether.

So. Read, if you like. Comment, if you like. Scoff and hit the back button on your browser, if you like. I await your decision with bated breath.