I am not above star-fucking.

On Easter Sunday, I sat in James Wong's living room and listened to him discuss his problems finding a roller coaster for Final Destination 3. This was naturally proceeded by a discussion of my favorite X-Files episode ever, "The Field Where I Died," which he wrote. James Wong is just the most laid back guy. And he's James Wong! I like knowing people who are known but not Olympian Diety Brad and Jen / J-Lo and Ben status.

Robert Wuhl of Arli$$ is also really chill. And a complete history nerd. But I did not sit in Mr. Wuhl's living room discussing his current work. My fiance' just interns for him. I met Robert in a comedy club in Hermosa Beach after his set, which was a much shortened version of a lengthy comedy-history lecture that he has been touring colleges with and is trying to get picked up by HBO. Robert's thesis for this premeire lecture--entitled "Assume the Position, with Mr. Wuhl"--is that we must assume the position that history is pop culture, and that when a legend becomes fact, we print the legend, therefore propigating the continual miseducation of American schoolchildren. It's totally intriguing, and occasionally hilarious.

There is a charge, a very large charge for a touch or a word...

I heart Sylvia Plath.

And indeed there is a very large charge for a word, because I am a fucking master-mistress of rhetoric.

I just finished a huge paper--can you tell?

The paper on cross-dressing? So last week. I just finished my gigantic term paper for my linguistics class. I don't know how well received it will be, as my research was not exactly discussed at any point during the quarter, but I think it's pretty solid and I should get points for originality. I backed things up with text. There are quotes from people who are much more knowledgeable than I am. I made pretty tables. I think I'll be okay.

Now all that's left is my equally gigantic term-paper, due Friday, on T.S. Eliot's "The Wasteland."

I feel quite on top of things, though. I'm on page three (single-spaced) of that one, and there really are no limits as to where I can go with it.

I am not worried.

On the topic of words, though, I must admit that with spring there's come a sort of renaissance for me. I'm reading again--for leisure, not just for class. I wrote a few lines of poetry the other day. I'm journaling--physical and etherial-internet journals alike. It's as though my life had been possessed by someone, something other. I'd been reading a Nick Hornby novel since December. What had become of me? I don't quite know where I was, but in picking up the pen, in my feverish scrawling and my obsessive purchasing of books recently . . . I feel like I'm back in my own skin.

This is what I do. This is why I have a quill tattooed on my ankle. This is why I want words carved into my back like The Woman Warrior.

This feels right.

An immune system would be really nice right now, she said.

My body had to revolt against me sometime.

I'm sick. Crazy body aching sore throat possibly the flu sick. All I have done today is read and sleep.

I am still sweating out the fever.

I'm under the impression that buying things online would make me feel better. Really, I think that being able to hold my head up for more than an hour would make me feel better.

And some stolen soup from the dining commons.

And my fee, but that one's going to be much harder to come by than commodity, culinary delights, and correct posture.

Stop the world I wanna get off.

Item: Medical Condition rears its ugly head. The people at the DMV are complete retards. I have apparently been driving with a suspended license since October. No one at the DMV saw fit to notify me. We are in the process of corrections. This is complete bollucks.

Item: The Ethan Hawke version of Hamlet from 2000 is interesting, and not always in good ways. Hamlet should never be an hour and forty minutes long. Nor should Julia Stiles ever be in any movies at all.

Item: Papers. Three. One complete, titled: "The Last Time I Wore a Dress: Cross-Dressing in Twelfth Night and The Merchant of Venice." Other two incomplete. One, still untitled, on African-American speech patterns. The other, titled: "I Do Not Find the Hanged Man: Divination in T.S. Eliot's The Wasteland." I feel burned out and exhausted, but something of a true academic. I'm supposed to stop eating and sleeping in the best interest of the field of literary criticism, aren't I?

Sleep is much desired. That or death.

I need to stop reading Sylvia Plath.