chronicles

Do you ever find yourself furiously washing blood off of your hands at 5:00 a.m. when the framed poster has awakened you (after two hours of sleep) by falling down upon your head, causing tiny glass shards to now be spread across your bed?*

I kept scrubbing and scrubbing at my hands, convinced that one piece of glass was still wedged in my index finger, and that’s when I realized that I am taking my Lacanian-guided psychoanalytic criticism on Lady Macbeth way too far.**

…

This is my life right now. I’m tired, but I finally understand iambic pentameter (it’s the sort of thing I should have learned seven years ago). Shakespeare is on my mind. An entire term on his plays has only swelled my admiration for this bard more than in my high school Shakespeare studies, go figure. Tired, but intellectually challenged and happy.

*internal rhyme bitches
**”Out, damn’d spot!” 

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