Wonder of Wonders, Miracle of Miracles

I'm up. I'm awake. I'm even showered, dressed, rapidly getting caffeinated (having gotten up, out, and back for a large overpriced coffee -- shout out to the SO who made that possible!) with my laundry in the washing machine. And it's still quite early in the day!

Wacky Poet Friend and I went out for our last night out and stayed out until the bars closed, being earnest intense writer-types. (Of course, staying out until the bars close in Grad City means that I'm home with a couple hours to kill before my most recent bedtime.) Wacky Poet Friend is leaving town tomorrow to give a reading in Philly and then to take on the world. Witty Sardonic Friend called me from the road this morning asking if I was hungover (no, I'm not, though it's got to be that weird inverse hangover that got me out of bed so early), since there was some drunkcalling about preparing for the revolution at the end of the world. I told WSF that WPF and I need him to deflate our ridiculous and overweaning egos. WSF said such posturing was good for me. (Of course, he thinks that my getting drunk and making a fool of myself is good for me because it teaches me humility.) But the point is: WSF is coming! WSF is coming! And he'll be here for a matter of weeks! (Yes, it's true, moving out of his apartment. But still! A couple weeks! He's been gone for frigging ever.)

Other reasons for exclamation points: it's the last week of classes! Last week of tutoring! Penultimate meeting for Cool Class! Thank goodness, because I really need it to be over.

(My apartment is strangely loud and raucous today, with people listening to their TVs really loud and others going off to work. It says something about my deadasleepness that I usually sleep very peacefully through all the slammed doors and not-so-muffled voices. Could the rain outside actually be intensifying the sounds?)

So it seems perfectly obvious to me in my wide-awake-and-almost-reasonable state that I need to figure out how to approach the second draft of the diss. I can't just put the entire thing on the desk and say to myself: Earnest, revise. It is totally overwhelming. And I will spend whole hours doing what I did last night: ignoring all the totally obvious calls for massive revision in favor of researching on the internet a refutation to a comment PA made on page 115. (Not to mention the curling up on the floor examining the weave of the carpet and the flopping on my back staring at the light fixtures arms akimbo as if I'm hoping to be taken by some violent religious ecstasy -- or waiting for the mothership to come take me home -- amazing how those two things seem so similar to me.) OY! I need a plan. PA hasn't read Chapter 3 yet so it's hard to think of what to do now about the botched birth that is Chapter 2. (Okay, I agree that the oft-used-and-abused baby metaphor for the diss is problematic; on the other hand, what else explains my reaction to critique but that I feel like PA is telling me that my newborn looks like a conehead Yoda?) So there is only one totally reasonable answer: I should focus on Chapter 1, whose problems are pretty clear to me. But not yet. Having this realization counts as working on the diss, right? (Blogging as work, discuss.) Right now, I have to respond to student projects for Cool Class. And put the laundry in the dryer.

Who knew that a bit of Monday night drinking would bring me such a clearheaded and work-ready Tuesday? Clearly, this is why we have to celebrate our achievements like rock stars. (Also, this explains Monday Night Football; it jumpstarts Tuesday admirably.)