I wrote a letter to Batman today.
It's finals' week.
That pretty much sums it up.
Tomorrow, I wake up at an ungodly hour to go write multiple essays designed by Satan. Only by the grace of a nameless, intervening God (Batman), were these essays diverted from their original occupant: Thoreau.
I hate Thoreau. I cannot describe to you how much I hate Thoreau. If Thoreau were alive, I would burn down his garage and shit in his pool. I would cut my hair in such a way that it always fell over my left eye and write angry blogs about him. That's how much I hate Thoreau.
Except the final that I take tomorrow won't have Thoreau in it. It'll be about oppressed black people and a whole lot of Faulkner. Faulkner is almost as bad as Thoreau. Almost. Because when I read Thoreau, within five words I want to claw out my eyes and kill myself on the nearest available pointy thing. With Faulkner, I can generally last for about a page before Hate Face kicks in and the villagers run terrified for the hills.
But I wrote a letter to Batman today. I asked him to pull over on his way to Gotham and let the Joker out for a walk. Just enough to set the university aflame or hold a bunch of us hostage. The professor would give us pity-As for being held hostage. I'm pretty sure it's in the handbook.
But then, knowing Chatham, maybe not. They're pretty big on being inconveniently equal. It's an all-girl's school. Someone is always PMSing in Management.
Yesterday, I went to bed at 7:50 pm. I got up at 9:00 am. Then, at 10:40 am, I went back to bed. I think I might have turned into Hortense Lee again without realizing it. She's my 80 year old alter-ego. Normally, she only comes out Monday evenings to bitch vehemently at Antiques Roadshow or when those young whippersnappers don't know how to pay their damn bus fare and sit down.
...I appear to be lying on the couch with an icepack on my chest. Yup. A Hortense Lee kind of day.
Congratulations, self. You just turned 82.