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My toe is better!!!!

And that is all ye need to know, said Keats.

This weekend has gone really slowly, and really C H I L L E D mon. I don’t understand HOW this is possible, but I am ridiculously on top of my work.

>French homework due at the end of this week:done
>English essay due 28 August: Read half a book of criticism, jotted down quotes, totally got it planned

I got offered to tutor a brand new course in ITALIAN next year at the university!

I still have flu (let’s contact the Guiness World Book of Records? Im sure I deserve a prize) and I’m still heartbroken

but truly the most important thing is I can walk on all ten of my toes without my eyeballs popping out.

This is the way the world ends
Not with a bang but a toe blister,
said Eliot

Thus it is most imperative that I keep my toes free from such abominations. I blame the Drama Department, with love.

I am now seriously indulging in glorious nerdiness, and am looking up the following words:

epanodos, anaphora, anacoluthon

They are apparently rhetorical devices, though for all I know they could be symptoms of spastic colon syndrome.

Still no news from male number eight (yup, I made a list, in May. I updated it today. I titled it Math Heart. The temptation to post it on this blog did not overwhelm me, thank goodness). My friend has been glaring at him every time she sees him in the cafeteria though 😀

I realised earlier today, that if I’m REALLY honest with myself, I haven’t accepted the end yet. Deep down, I think he’s coming back, I think I will take him back, and I will be in a relationship with him again. It’s really frustrating that I’m being this dumb, but it’s the truth. I keep hoping he’ll come tap tap against my window.

I know he won’t.

But I don’t really. Not a word for a week. He could be thinking anything.

In four weeks, we start the fourth term here at uni. In four months, I will have finished second year. In four years this will all be a vague memory. Kinda bittersweet thought there.

Note: I am now halfway through Faulkner’s The Sound & The Fury. So blame the discontinuity and intertextuality on him. I have decided that although he sometimes needs a literary mouth-guard, he is generally a genius and I am rather enjoying this Modernist module. (Place your bets now, folks, is Marty highly likely to withdraw this statement in a week’s time, when Virginia Woolf rears her incoherent head round!?)


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