Damn, what a week! What a day, for that matter. Had a good meeting about my dissertation though, the jouissance produced by which could only be lessened by the slight dizziness caused by the 9 cups of coffee I had trying to finish my writing before the meeting, as well as by the approximately 3 pints of blood I had lost during the attempt to reduce my dissertation-induced cro-magnon factor with a last-minute shave. I am using old-school razorblades now, by the way, which is truly the way to go if you like a close shave, anemia and pirate scars. Cool thing about the fact that it is finally Friday night: nothing. Yes, that’s right. The nice thing about writing a dissertation and being on fellowship (as I am sure Harvey and Justin can confirm) is the disappearance of the weekend, since there is really no difference between a weekday and the artist formerly known as “the weekend.” I have to read, write and repeat as needed. Hence my short-lived Friday enthusiasm appears to me at present to be something like phantom-pain. I have an itch where my leg used to be, i.e. I feel temporary, confused enjoyment about something that no longer exists: the weekend. But at this point the repressive structure that there is the dissertation has become internalized to the degree that the desire for a weekend does not make sense any more anyway (thus functioning like classic Freudian repression)–whenever I take even only half a day off I am so guilt-ridden for not writing, or reading that I cannot enjoy whatever it is that I am doing during that half-day break that was supposed to make me stop thinking about the dissertation. My dissertation functions thus much like Scientology, or the mob: just when I thought I was out, they pull me back in. Ok, ok, I should not complain. I know my life really is not THAT bad. It’s not like I am a coalminer. But seriously, has anyone read Sillitoe’s Saturday Night and Sunday Morning? Yes, the worker just lives for the drunken stupor on saturday night and the regret and hangover on Sunday morning, but damn it, can’t I have even that at least once in a while as well? If I did the saturday drinking thing, all I would be thinking about is how this will make me get up later and how I will have to make up that lost time by staying up longer, probably multiplied by the factor of two because the hangover will make my brain work more slowly. Aaah, to be coalminers! (Isn’t this one of the classic signs of yuppieness? romanticizing the working class and the simulacrum of the simple life?).
All that is to say that I really do not have the brain capacity left to write anything intelligent, or witty tonight. Instead this will have to suffice. I will now just look for the weirdest possible picture to put above this and then call it a night. Yes, it is not even 9 p.m. on a Fridy night and I will go to bed so I can get up early and do more writing. Wow, us academics really are the coolest!
Ok, found the picture, but you already saw that about two minutes ago.
Hey: are vampires feudalists/capitalists and werewolves communists? Or are they anarchists? Maybe Italian anarchists even? Would make sense. Werewolves can’t play soccer either.