2004-12-08..4:35 p.m.

I. Am. KNACKERED! Yesterday�s seminar was simply entitled How to Drink With One�s Prof. And did we. HC is a great professor and a lovely lady, but sadly also a very good host. Meaning that glasses were never allowed to drain. Meaning that I lost count of how much I had to drink each time I said, Why yes, thank you! I�ll have just a little bit more. Meaning that everyone stumbled out of there very tipsy. Meaning that I got home at half8 completely wankered because I also decided that Pound-a-Pint night at the union was a GREAT idea. Combined with my current bout of insomnia, I have spent most of today feeling exhausted and not a little cranky. I�m not sure what it is, but I just can�t sleep at the moment. It doesn�t matter how early I go to bed, or how theoretically sleep-inducing the foods I consume, I just end up dozing for eight hours or conking out in awkward positions that leave my spine all wrinkled the next day. Regardless I�ve been fluctuating all day between not being entirely sure I�m not still a bit pissed and fighting off waves of fatigue. And I�ve been super carby. And I feel super chunky. I am DESPERATE to have some space to yoga it up, or at least do sit-ups without having to listen out for intruding footfall, or worse PAY for the privilege.

I�ve decided to get an Aimee Mann CD for my sister. It�s a bit risky, I know, given her total dislike of ANYTHING NEW, but one of her songs was on the first Bridget Jones� movie, or the Notting Hill movie, or one of those romcom�s she seems to enjoy so much. It�s as soft-rock as I am willing to go, very bland and boring and pretty, so I think it will be opened to much glee.

I�m not sure I mentioned this before, but it looks like your gallant hero will soon be ditching her current borrowed abode in favour of paying rent and bills. With her friend Irene (pronounced Spanishlike because she�s Spanish: y-REN-eh, with the �y� sounding like the �i� in �ing� and the �eh� sounding like the stereotype of Canadian peculiarity). M is quite funny about it, he doesn�t want me to go, and to be honest I don�t want to either. I like living with him! We get on really well and are compatible in the little ways that count, like being clean in communal areas and washing dishes once we use them. But I desperately need a room of my own. Because I�m Virginia Woolf all of a sudden � just make sure I�m not saying I need rocks of my own for pockets of my own to wear while swimming in my own river. Seriously though, it would be quite impossible to write while living there, and though I love it, it must be done.

I feel like a three-day-old wad of peanut butter left on the roof of the mouth of someone who suddenly slipped into a coma with no one around to look for things like three-day-old wads of peanut butter on the roof of the mouth.

To that end I wrote a poem. I don�t write poems often, mostly when I�m sad and hung over. They�re invariably crap, but, like those wishfully ambitious epics and haikus written in the depth of teenage despair, entirely necessary. Except that I don�t like deep ee cumming imitation or punctuation anymore. It�s not a punctuation kind of day.