I have not done much personal reading the past couple of weeks. I have read a chapter here and a chapter there of Fluke by Christopher Moore (with which I am almost finished). The fact that I am not too impressed by the book could perhaps come to light as the reason for this, but it is more likely that I have had to read short story after short story after f-ing short story for my English class. I am a big fan of the short story, so I am completely accepting of this. I just finished reading "A Good Man Is Hard to Find," and I am about to read "The Yellow Wallpaper." Earlier this week I read "Everyday Use" and "A Worn Path." The week before that and the week before that we were studying Faulkner's "A Rose for Emily," mostly because my teacher is obsessed with Faulkner.
Outside of my assigned reading, this week I re-read "Paper Pills" by Sherwood Anderson as I so often do. I also read "Bitterness for Three Sleepwalkers" by Gabriel Garcia Marquez. I also re-read Hemingway's "Hills Like White Elephants."
They are eating me alive.
I am also terribly ill, and because of this illness, I feel quite disoriented. It is not helping me in my studies.
I have no idea what the paper I am to hand in on Monday is supposed to be about.
I forgot that I have two quizzes and a test tomorrow. Or, today.
I cannot sleep because I feel so awful.
My art class is full of idiots. My political science teacher does not teach. He is also fat. I really dislike seeing fat people. He is really, really fat. It makes me cringe.