I would just like it noted for the record the timestamp difference between the last post and this one. That is how long I've been working, fueled by Caramel Mocha. I really don't even want to think about it. All I know is this: it's a Saturday night and I'm in a coffeehouse working, where I have been planted long enough to have sort of noticed that no one who was working when I got here is working here now. I've put in a full day. And my lower back is killing me. And I am crabby. And there is no alcohol in my house because I took it over to WSF's house, like a dork.
Happy couples are walking by the window, hair gently blown back by the breeze. Guys are walking with important strides to Pub Street. They are gloating, all of them. I know it. Because I am the center of the universe. Or so says the pain in my back. (In The Body in Pain, Elaine Scarry said that when in pain, an individual loses a sense of the world. She's right. Of course she meant in pain from being tortured. Well, dissertating counts, doesn't it?)
I hereby make a proclamation to the universe: I AM NOT WORKING TOMORROW. (I'll send the chapter and notes to my readers on Monday, as promised.) In fact, I think in celebration of my finished reader-ready third draft (okay, the changes from the second to the third draft were pretty minor, except for this chapter), I think we should all take the day off.
Drinks for everyone!
By the way, the best part of being done with working was seeing that some of you had left me comments in the time I was trapped in this dungeon. You all rock!