Just having a pity party. You don't have to come if you don't want to

Okay, so I don’t handle stress well at the best of times. But this semester is particularly bad. (Chelsea, Kelly, and Aislinn, please feel free to skip this post as you have already heard all of this three – or maybe four – times a week for the past few weeks). Lately, I feel like I’m having a constant out of body experience and looking down on myself in wonder and horrified awe as I struggle through assignments. My brain feels like a brewing storm on open water, a turbulent, rolling, heavy sloshing of incoherent thoughts.

My portfolio assignment is like a stubborn, disobedient toddler that refuses to give in and be written. No amount of threats or pleading is working. I have been struggling with it for four weeks and still have nothing. I can only hope that the pressure of being down to seven days sparks something, even something insipid, but at least something. Also, it appears that some modernist literature, to me, is like a car motor, or plumbing, or most of our current technology: sure, I could learn how it works if I wanted to, if I were willing to put in the effort it would take to figure it out, but I’m just not interested enough to expend that kind of energy. This is not true of all modernist literature; some of it I find very interesting – mostly the stuff that critics denounce as not being entirely modernist.

I told my husband yesterday that something amazing has happened, something I never thought would happen to me: I am finally sick of reading. He told me that’s not good, because one of us has to be able to do it. What a guy, he knows just the right thing to say!