I have "Can't Live (If Living Is Without You)" stuck in my head.

But no worries - that's not going to be the song of the day. It's just to give you an idea of the kind of pressure I'm under while I write this. It's hard to think thoughts while Mariah Carey is belting in your ears.

My legs are sore from yesterday - The Librarian warned me the course we were running had lots of hills, but of course I was sitting at my desk at the time, and sitting at your desk makes all things seem just as easy. "Ten miles of hills - psh. I'm sitting still right now. How much harder can it be to run ten miles of hills below an 8:30 pace?" Because I'm a running asshole, even to myself. Tonight's run from the store is six miles, then tomorrow I'm not running at all (I'll probably go bike at the gym for a while), so I'm not terribly concerned about my quads. I'm more concerned as to whether or not my tights will be dry by the time I have to put them on again.

Today I wrote an essay contrasting the Man of Law's Prologue and Tale with the Wife of Bath's Prologue and Tale, and their various messages about what makes a good marriage, and What Is A Good Wife, and What Do Women Want. My thesis was that Chaucer wrote these two entirely opposite viewpoints - give the women all the power versus give the women none of the power - to basically say, you know, "I don't know; do whatever the fuck works for you. Books can't tell you how to live, not even mine."

None of that means anything to any of you, but I was pretty proud of it, considering that I had to write it in 30 minutes in pen. Obviously I cleaned up my language for the professor. She has a doctorate, after all. Though she likes the Twilight movies, so it's hard to make that mean something. Today in American Lit, the girl next to me had a Twilight bookmark in her copy of Norton's Anthology, and Tedward's stupid eyes were watching me, I swear.

Anyone who uses a Twilight bookmark in Norton's Anthology is probably not going to be reading that anthology with much comprehension, in my opinion. It's like saying that Miley Cyrus is better than Cyndi Lauper. You can't have heard much Cyndi Lauper to make a statement like that.

Brom Bones wouldn't even need a pumpkin to drive Tedward's glittering buttocks out of Sleepy Hollow, 's all I'm saying.