I’ve been staring at this paper for the better part of, oh I don’t know, ten hours. It’s not like I’m totally screwed or anything like that. I mean, I’m on the last goddamn paragraph. I just don’t want to do it. I have no inspiration. Ok, so G.K. Chesterton has things to say about progress. Big ducking woop (yes). Personally, I think it’s a bunch of philosophical bunk. “You have to have a concrete ideal in order to progress in life” he says. “You have to have faith in your ideal and have doubt in your ideal” he says. No shit Sherlock. The man is brilliant, don’t get me wrong (although if you do get me wrong I will make absolutely no effort to stop you), but he explains too thoroughly (and yet too vaguely) the importance of ideas one cannot imagine a world without. Ridiculous. Ergh, who am I to complain? After all, this is excellent fodder for a seven page paper, and the only thing stopping me from writing it is my own desire to unproductive. Which leads me to ask myself “what the hell am I doing?” Too much? Not at all. I’m barely doing enough. Hell. I don’t even know what to do. I’m sick of working my ass off, yet if I don’t I’ll wind up at some second rate grad school without sufficient financial aid. Bugger. Well, I’m hungry, tired (I think), and almost finished with this paper. In one week I get to go home to my lovely yellow-jacket infest room (seriously, how the fuck does that happen?) and I’ll get to sleep- who am I kidding? I have three weeks or so left and eleven more pages to write. Maybe I’ll come down with some form of delirium, you know, one I don’t have already. I bet these things’ll really be interesting then. A stream of consciousness between multiple personalities…that’d be a great idea for one of those indie-ass short films set to music. I meant to wrap this up a while ago (that goal turned out great), so now I’m going to say “Eff it!”, finish this paper, sleep, wake up, eat, “learn”, do homework, “learn”, “learn”, dick around, “learn”, do homework, dick around, dick around, eat, dick around, dick around, sleep, etc, etc, etceter-fuckin-ra.

Have you ever slapped a bee? I slapped a bee. It felt great. It was like nothing else on this earth. You know, that actually makes sense. I mean, what could smacking a bee actually be like? You can’t compare it to smacking a wasp, because A. that’s just dumb and B. if you still think that’s a viable comparison then you, my friend, are no better than a homunculus. The same goes for smacking a hornet. At this point, I feel like I should note the metaphoric quality of “smacking bees”. It’s the perfect euphemism, isn’t it? But what could it possibly mean…I’ll tell you what it means. It means nothing- absolutely nothing. Now all you gotta do is forget you read anything and walk away. Don’t even hit the little x at the top right hand corner. Or you can.