yesterday in terms of my thesis. I read about half of a Derrida essay at the laundromat, and for some reason that seemed to be enough, I suppose, because I then let it be known that I was thinking of going out, at which my temporary roommate (who is leaving New York on Thursday) suggested going dancing, at which I said, "well, go get ready." Our usual dancing haunt was annoying me - I just don't understand why people feel they can overtake your space just by putting themselves there when you're clearly trying to dance in that spot already - and my friend got both of our drinks spilled on her while I was outside on the phone, and she hadn't been to the Bulgarian bar I've told her about, so we headed down to the Lower East Side with my whatever- you- want- to- call- him, where we proceeded to dance salsa to any song that allowed it and every which way to everything else.
Which means that for the next three days, eighteen hours, twenty-eight minutes and fifty seconds, give or take, I will be locked in my room, glued to this chair, except for coffee refills in the kitchen.
It's just the first draft, it's just the first draft, it's just the first draft.
Yeah, except she's expecting it to be fairly polished. *deep breath* I have been training for this. No sweat.
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