...urk.

Well, I was going to go to a Rockapella concert this evening with one of my fellow first-years, Ryan, after finishing my Postructuralism/Deconstruction/Postmodernism paper this afternoon. Problem was, I DIDN'T finish it this afternoon (it's only supposed to be three pages, but since it's in 10-pt. font with 1.5 line spacing it ends up being quite a bit more than that in actuality). So I ended up having to call him to cancel kinda last-minute, and now I feel crappy and guilty and wish I'd just said "to hell with the paper," gone to the concert and stayed up late tonight to finish the paper. (I hate flaking on people.)

...Oh well, nothing I can do about it now, other than finish my paper.

Let's Positive Linking!
- GameFAQs...we know drama. Bitching on the Radiata Stories board over a FAQ author not crediting the character recruitment Wiki, from which apparently it borrowed wholesale. And y'know, while I can see being pissed at said FAQ author, who comes off as a major asshole, all this wild talk of suing people is ridiculous. Dudes, it's the Internet...it doesn't matter how well-known your online strategy guide is, that and $2.50 will get you a cup of coffee with a hefty topping of whipped SHUT THE FUCK UP.
- Loading Suikoden IV save data into Rhapsodia will let you recruit a certain Hot Pants-ed character. OMG YAY

Edit: Dude, what kind of sadist requires ten references/quotes for a supposedly two-page (plus a page of notes) paper? AUGH.

This is especially bad because I'm having to wade through Derrida and Cixous for quotes, and the latter especially is completely incomprehensible. I SWEAR that Helene Cixous must have been on some kind of hallucinogenic drug when she wrote these (and not absinthe, because that supposedly makes you write better). A sample passage:

Thus, what is inscribed under Jean Genet's name, in the movement of a text that divides itself, pulls itself to pieces, dismembers itself, regroups, remembers itself, is a proliferating, maternal femininity. A phantasmic meld of men, males, gentlemen, monarchs, princes, orphans, flowers, mothers, breasts gravitates about a wonderful "sun of energy" - love, - that bombards and disintegrates these ephemeral amorous anomalies so that they can be recomposed in other bodies for new passions.

It's ALL like that. And this is in a SCHOLARLY TEXT, mind you. x_x

Memory

I just remembered the strangest thing, completely unconnected to anything I was doing.

For some reason, a moment from a couple of years ago popped into my head. When I was in England, I remember taking one of my trips to London - ostensibly for j-shopping, I think, but in actuality just to wander around and see the town. And I remember going into an indoor (possibly underground?) mall that was connected to a tube station, and spending about fifteen minutes to half an hour browsing around in a magic shop. (Like, rabbits out of hats magic, not "Wicca good and love the earth and women power and I'll be over here" magic.) I remember looking at all the ring tricks and books on famous magicians and things, and being quite content that I was having a fine day and enjoying just maxin' and relaxin'. It was a peaceful moment, and still gives me a kind of calm glow to think about. :)

...but now I miss England. :(

Methinks it's time to start saving the money...after all, I don't think I have Spring Break plans yet...

Edit: Ganked from karma_aster:

When you see this, post a poem in your LJ.

Not sure if this counts as a poem, but I couldn't resist posting the lines that were the cause of so many giggles today (not all mine, honest!):

This Absolon gan wype his mouth ful drie.
Derk was the nyght as pich, or as the cole,
And at the wyndow out she putte hir hole,
And Absolon, hym fil no bet ne wers,
But with his mouth he kiste hir naked ers
Ful savourly, er he were war of this.
Abak he stirte, and thoughte it was amys,
For wel he wiste a womman hath no berd.
He felte a thyng al rough and long yherd,
And seyde, "Fy! allas! what have I do?"
"Tehee!" quod she, and clapte the wyndow to,
And Absolon gooth forth a sory pas.