No, really. There's something wrong with me. All I want to do is finish this fucking piece of shit paper. Why am I so fucking incapacitated. Why do I stay here in grad school, if I can't write? This is just plain ass.
Also, in an unrelated sidenote, and an added little happiness for me, make that 165, and the realization that I'm a compulsive gambler and must not do it ever again with actual stakes. Jesus. It only smarts a little, which is even worse. I am ashamed.
All this can be your, my friend . . . hee hee. You too, can leave your life of luxury for this. Fuck.