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i am writing my final exam essays.
i'm finding myself utterly resistent. i'd rather be cleaning my kitchen floor with my toothbrush (does anyone else often think they would rather work digging trenches for a living than a job that requires any drain whatsoever on their brain ~ an organ better suited, of course, to doing anything but the intellectually menial task at hand).
it's okay. i'm halfway done. i'll prolly finish tonight if i keep at it (taking frequent breaks so as not to cause a psychic dent in the continuum out of sheer obstinacy of will). i swore i would apply myself this time around, but cummulative finals always just irritate me. some things don't change.
i didn't get much sleep last night with the dog getting me up at 2 a.m. to hack up a hair ball (i must be the only dog-owner whose dog had hair balls ~ i swear, she's part cat). but anyway, so that's contributing to my pokey pace and grim aspect. i keep telling myself if i would just finish the thing i'd be done and then i can go do all sorts of other, more fun things.
it's not really working, though. and i even bought soda because i had run out last night.
the saddest part is: i'm gonna get a lousy grade on this and i mostly don't care. so, so bad.
: o p
~ * ~
in other news, i just have to share this fun site 19th Century Children & What They Read ~ wonderful resource of old texts (both educational and leisure-reading) as well as plenty of contemporary articles on child-rearing, the deleterious effects of adventure fiction on impressionable minds, and other oddities. i came across this among my bookmarks ~ i'd forgotten i had it.
of particular interest are casual Adoption Advertisments in the Times and a great sampling of articles, etc. from Robert Merry's Museum (published 1841-1872).
there's a little bit of everything here: moralising, superstition, nauseating patriotism, and my favorite description of a sentimental victorian poem of them all:
and this ~ ! this here:
ah, the delights of children's poetry.
: D
i'm finding myself utterly resistent. i'd rather be cleaning my kitchen floor with my toothbrush (does anyone else often think they would rather work digging trenches for a living than a job that requires any drain whatsoever on their brain ~ an organ better suited, of course, to doing anything but the intellectually menial task at hand).
it's okay. i'm halfway done. i'll prolly finish tonight if i keep at it (taking frequent breaks so as not to cause a psychic dent in the continuum out of sheer obstinacy of will). i swore i would apply myself this time around, but cummulative finals always just irritate me. some things don't change.
i didn't get much sleep last night with the dog getting me up at 2 a.m. to hack up a hair ball (i must be the only dog-owner whose dog had hair balls ~ i swear, she's part cat). but anyway, so that's contributing to my pokey pace and grim aspect. i keep telling myself if i would just finish the thing i'd be done and then i can go do all sorts of other, more fun things.
it's not really working, though. and i even bought soda because i had run out last night.
the saddest part is: i'm gonna get a lousy grade on this and i mostly don't care. so, so bad.
: o p
~ * ~
in other news, i just have to share this fun site 19th Century Children & What They Read ~ wonderful resource of old texts (both educational and leisure-reading) as well as plenty of contemporary articles on child-rearing, the deleterious effects of adventure fiction on impressionable minds, and other oddities. i came across this among my bookmarks ~ i'd forgotten i had it.
of particular interest are casual Adoption Advertisments in the Times and a great sampling of articles, etc. from Robert Merry's Museum (published 1841-1872).
there's a little bit of everything here: moralising, superstition, nauseating patriotism, and my favorite description of a sentimental victorian poem of them all:
"William, the Negro Boy" (April 1849), by Jane L. Gray, extolls the heroism of William Patterson, who apparently died in Easton, Pennsylvania, while saving other boys from drowning. The author's lapses into condescension tell us something about 19th-century attitudes -- and bad poetry.
and this ~ ! this here:
One woman, sulkier than the rest,
Would still refuse her food--
Hark! hark! e'en now I hear her cries!
I see her in her blood!
They flung her overboard--poor wretch,
She rested from her pain;
But when, O when! O blessed God,
Shall I have rest again?
ah, the delights of children's poetry.
: D