A rainy day in Beantown; the sort of day you stay curled up under covers with a book (or laptop) on your lap and a cup of coffee at your side. Which is exactly what I’m nursing right now. Surprised to say I’m not hungover this morning, despite drinking liquor, wine, beer, and champagne all in the course of four-or-so hours and getting to bed at 4:30AM, then waking up at 10. Perhaps my tolerance is upping the ante again? I realized, with much terror, that I was becoming an ancient, haggard old queen last week—I had hangover throw-ups! Who does that? Vomming the night of is respectable, especially if you nobly force yourself to do so in order to preemptively strike back at the impending hangover. But hangover vomming is for long-term alcoholics, people who can’t hold their booze, and grandparents. I’m old! Old, I say! I do feel like a total creeper on campus—there are all these hot athletic (and probably rich and over privileged) boys at school, and so I—naturally—cruise, and then I remember that there’s like, some sort of divide between me and them. I may be but a year or two older, but they’re babies now to me! I’m wilting before I’ve even had the chance to properly blossom. On the gay market, I’m spoiled meat; I’m slowly morphing into the Yoda of the bottom brigade of Boston. Ugh. Take me behind the barn; I’m like the horse with a gimp foot.
In other news, we’re in full swing now. Presentations loom, assignments pop up out of nowhere, professors throw an extra two-hundred pages of reading onto our plate with only a week’s warning. The party-hards are dying out, and now people beg off of sexytimes with the excuse that they have “papers to write.” Oh, those? Piff, posh! I’ve somehow managed to stay on top of everything thus far, but next weekend will, I’m certain, throw me under the wheel. Three of my queens are visiting, and for four days, I’m letting loose—with or against my consent, I can rest assured. Attempting to get ahead on everything this weekend/upcoming week, but with so much to do, there’s rarely if ever time to do anything but stay with the flow of the current. Whatever. I’m just happy to say that even if my ‘element’ isn’t with me in Boston, I can bring it to me from the days of yore—in the form of my beautiful, crazy friends (and the cheap cigs they’re bringing me!).
Beyond that, nothing much of interest in my life. I’ll be seeing Margaret Atwood on her book tour stop in Cambridge in a few weeks, and I’m submitting an abstract to a conference—to potentially present a paper on abject bodies in Anne Sexton’s poetry. I’m actually pretty thrilled about that little fact. I’m reading everything under the sun, and even forcing myself to keep my old habit of reading-one-book-for-pleasure at all times (it keeps me grounded, reminds me why I’m doing this)—even if it means just catching a few pages here and there on the subway, or while waiting for the train to campus. Wilde’s Dorian Gray is my current one; had never read him before, and he’s just delicious and hilarious. I don’t imagine most people think of late-19th century novels as particularly humorous, but I’ve been cracking up constantly since starting it.
Enough boring details on me; yet again, I’ll say that I’ll update more frequently. And hopefully! I can get back into what the original purpose of this blog was (not merely listing my activities or blogging my oh-so-potent emotions), and start bringing in some more frequent cultural critique-type-shite and book reviews and such. Until then…
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