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sometimes I get really sick of titles It's good, I suppose, that I've gained so much weight I'm actually fitting into my pants again, but I don't like it. At least I'm capable of gaining weight, and I guess I'm happy about that, but still, there's that idiotic part of me that wants my clothes to be falling off. I printed out all my thesis stuff so far, turned it in, got it back, and it's covered with red marks. Still have to write the intro and all that and I'm stuck and can't do it. I'm overwhelmed and want to quit. Kevin's coming this weekend, I have a 5K on Saturday, it's gotten rainy (which is good), there's some strange phantom smell of bad breath in my house, I have coffee sitting in the French press waiting for me to pour it. I have no income again. I want to get a job as an international courier but I don't know how realistic that idea is. Mostly I want to get back into bed because it's kind of cold here but I have stuff to do. One of the professors here - a strange strange man - suggested I get a job picking up dog shit. I'll be getting a fucking master's degree. Picking up dog shit? But he was serious - it's apparently a very lucrative business. Still. The fuck I'm going to pick up dog shit. Who has bad breath here? I'm the only one here and it's not me. Maybe it's a ghost, someone who died after eating a stinky bagel. Stop breathing on me, ghost! Please note: you have one week to submit your entry for the Exciting Writing Contest! One week! Entry! Submit! Listen to nice music! Write! Do it!
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