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I am dead-dog tired. Because enrollment in class is a requisite for university housing, I'm taking a six-week course in Central Asian History, and today was the in-class essay. We had three hours to answer two questions of our choosing. I used two blue books and two hours and fifty-seven minutes and still didn't answer the second question as thoroughly as I would've liked. No, I'm not Hermione Granger. I'm just constantly haunted by the fear of paucity, that bane of professorial existence wherein lazy students scribble vague, unsubstantiated generalities onto the page in a bid to camouflage their gross unpreparedness. Perhaps nine pages for one response was overkill when you consider that he classified five paragraphs as a thorough answer, but I would rather overperform than underwhelm.
I only managed three pages for the second question, but by then, I was running out of time, and my hand was cramping, and so I left him a note at the bottom of the page crying surrender and promising to be more specific on the rewrite if necessary. And I meant it. But just between me and you, I hope it isn't because I've no desire to tread that particular patch of historical ground again.
I'm proud of my effort but anxious about the results, and the combination had rendered me groggy and slack-jawed and a trifle headachy from three hours of rigorous participation in the esteemed and oft-held Nerd Olympiad, and so I doubt I'll be fannishly productive tonight, much as I'd like to fic and squee about the season finale of Criminal Minds. Like as not, I'll stare at the TV in a vacant stupor until I collapse from exhaustion at a ridiculously early hour.
Oh, all right. I'll say this about the CM finale. It made me do the Xandir P. Whifflebottom Panic Dance. "Oh, my God, oh, my God, oh, my God, oh, my God, oh, my God, oh, my God, oh, my God...!"
They SHOT Hotch. In his house. HOTCH.
Oh, my God, oh, my God, oh, my God, oh, my God...!
This show has brass motherfucking balls. No, twenty-four-carat goddamn balls, and I love it.
And making the unsub a quadriplegic manipulating his mentally retarded brother from his bed? Platinum damn balls, ones worthy of polish, and it is a duty I will lovingly undertake.
Bend over, CSI franchise, because Criminal Minds is your daddy, and he needs a little lovin'.
A+
I only managed three pages for the second question, but by then, I was running out of time, and my hand was cramping, and so I left him a note at the bottom of the page crying surrender and promising to be more specific on the rewrite if necessary. And I meant it. But just between me and you, I hope it isn't because I've no desire to tread that particular patch of historical ground again.
I'm proud of my effort but anxious about the results, and the combination had rendered me groggy and slack-jawed and a trifle headachy from three hours of rigorous participation in the esteemed and oft-held Nerd Olympiad, and so I doubt I'll be fannishly productive tonight, much as I'd like to fic and squee about the season finale of Criminal Minds. Like as not, I'll stare at the TV in a vacant stupor until I collapse from exhaustion at a ridiculously early hour.
Oh, all right. I'll say this about the CM finale. It made me do the Xandir P. Whifflebottom Panic Dance. "Oh, my God, oh, my God, oh, my God, oh, my God, oh, my God, oh, my God, oh, my God...!"
They SHOT Hotch. In his house. HOTCH.
Oh, my God, oh, my God, oh, my God, oh, my God...!
This show has brass motherfucking balls. No, twenty-four-carat goddamn balls, and I love it.
And making the unsub a quadriplegic manipulating his mentally retarded brother from his bed? Platinum damn balls, ones worthy of polish, and it is a duty I will lovingly undertake.
Bend over, CSI franchise, because Criminal Minds is your daddy, and he needs a little lovin'.
A+
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