I have a most disappointing sense of humor, I think. Adolescent, at best, infantile at worst.
I successfully finished my paper, and managed to insert the phrase “cock and balls” into a paper that had nothing to do with either.
On Hemingway’s novel, Fuller comments, “I don’t like any story where boy meets girl, it’s a love story, and you get to the end and find out he has no cock and balls. It’s dishonest” (422).
I beat Michael, that way. I bet her $1 to put the word cock in hers. I doubt she did.
I can’t quite wrap my head around the fact that I managed to pull all of them off. For better or worse, they’re done, and I am so relieved that I really don’t have words for it.
The fact that I have a rather stiff drink in me at the moment might be contributing to this “I don’t have words” thing.
So now I sleep, hopefully longer than 3 hours, which is my average for the past week.
And then I get up to study for my Brit Lit.
It’s almost over, and I’m a-rocking.