I am in the computer lab, trying to write a paper, but having trouble breathing. I haven't started the paper. There is a cleaning woman behind me, spraying chemicals all through the air, cleaning shit - and it smells like bleach, like cleaning the bathtub - and fucking shit, I don't want to write any more papers. I want to be done. I want this woman to stop cleaning, to get away from me, to stop spraying stuff. Space. It's what I want. I hate Miriam Wallace so much, more than this smell.
I bought my plane ticket home today. I made contact with Mary Miller, we are going to rock n roll the capital city over break, and things are looking good if I look past today, past these two papers. So close to the finish line, then I can breath, have space. Buckling down and writing this paper in countdown 5...4...3...2...1...
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