The English language hates me

The paper I should have been writing when last we spoke almost killed me, but I triumphed over it in the end. I was up until four thirty in the morning writing, and I have nothing to blame but my own stupidity. Most of the problem was that I hadn’t even completed a large chunk of reading necessary for the task, and spent the early evening doing just that. I lose track of time after that, but in any event I didn’t write the opening paragraph until almost two am, by which point I was so tired that words came to me slowly, painfully, as if being drawn out of my brain inch by inch by a pair of hot tongs covered in fire ants. See, that metaphor just leapt right onto the page, but in the early hours of Tuesday I would have had to do the mental equivalent of shaking water out of my ear for the same effect. But I finished, significantly.

Then last night I had to write my weekly assignment for my short fiction class after work, which didn’t take nearly as long as the above but was still trying given my massive sleep debt. In between work and that, I ventured down the Ave for some more Pho with Marta and Kelly et al, and actually pronounced the word right during the majority of the meal. As the broth went to my head, I reversed my stance and announced to our table that I was starting a movement to pronounce it as English dictates, with a hard “O”, none of this schwa business. As if in punishment for my sins against Vietnamese, as we were paying for the food my right flip-flop broke, the second pair I’ve worn to death in the last six months. I wasn’t too worried about the footwear itself, as they’re a dime a dozen, but I was very worried about walking up the Ave with one bare foot, because if there’s one place on earth you should be worried about stepping on syringes, it’s the Ave. I goose-stepped to Marta’s car and she gave me a ride back to work, but I still had to answer the larger question of how I would get home from there after writing my story. At midnight, as I was printing out the final draft, I learned that Nathan’s car is broken beyond repair, Marta had a few too many glasses of wine after she’d gotten home to come get me, and Bryan was asleep. I called Kelly, my most loyal and least available friend, and thankfully she answered and hassled her friend Roark to drive me home. It was awful sweet of her.

Today was my midterm in English Lit. Before 1600, the study guide for which led me to believe would be significantly more challenging than it actually was. It’s a two-hour class, which gives rise to the opportunity for some monstrous exams. I managed to finish in time, filling four pages of my blue book – only my second one at UW – for the essay part. I think it went pretty well.

The article I wrote about Kelly ran in the Daily yesterday in its much-reduced form. I hate being a huffy writer, since usually when my editor makes cuts I step back, take a deep breath, and grudgingly concede that the article didn’t suffer much as a result. But this time, I feel a very good article was reduced to a just-okay one. You can compare the two for yourself and see if you agree, if you’re feeling bored. All the parts which made it interesting to read, language-wise, were cut to make space for the obscenely large illustration accompanying Megan Matthews’ piece, and while Kelly told me that her friends all recognized her from the story and said they liked it, I wonder if people unfamiliar with the subject were the least bit entertained. I hope so.