Tuesday, March 22, 2011

i have only words to play with.

i'm currently having a furious battle with my college library database. it is giving me wonderful books and critical essays that would be PERFECT for my paper (that i need by thursday) and absolutely no way to read them.

does my wonderful library, in which i currently sit, have these lovely critical essays that the MLA database tantalizes me with?

of course not.

so now, it's march 22nd, and i am sitting in the library watching it snow.

i feel like there's something completely and utterly wrong about all of this.

forgetting about the snow (which is so utterly terrible i want to forget about it), i have this pressing paper. i have a few things for me and against me.


1. i have a slight working thesis. it's way too general. but i have it.
2. my book is covered in sticky notes and i can flip to each one and say AHA. POINT.


1. the library database obviously does not want me to complete my topic proposal on time.
2. my proposal, or working thesis, isn't really a proposal anyway.
3. the book is lolita.
4. that needs repetition. the book is lolita.

it was either that or ellison, and i honestly can say that i enjoyed lolita. ellison just gives me more silent migraines. so now i'm stuck with nabokov's pedophile humbert humbert telling me all the time how much he loves games and damn it, how much he loves lolita, his twelve year old step daughter.

i like humbert's fascination with games, and that's where my thesis is headed, eventually. the thesis hovers somewhere in this vicinity- the entire book of lolita is nabokov's game, and humbert is the pawn of it, who... also likes to play games? it's games and games and games and the novel is a game, and humbert himself is a game and he plays games.

it's so many games i can't wrap my mind around it, which is why i have three different colored sticky notes in the book denoting games played and game type, and i have like... 500. i swear to god, i turned that book into a rainbow.

eventually some awesome thesis is going to pop into my head and everything will be fantastic and the library will suddenly blossom with critical essays about nabokov's obsession with games and elevating pedophilia to art. but this has to happen by thursday and tomorrow is a big day for me, and none of that involves english. i must go to lab, blow up some stuff, acquire my brother's birthday present, and pretend to be a seventy-year-old lady with a bipolar son for two hours. skipping psychology sounds like a good option at this point. but alas, setterlund might actually tell me something worthwhile and make a good joke.

until this fantastic moment happens, i remain, in the library, with a dr. pepper and some hostess cakes, pathetically blogging about my paper, watching it snow. the pathetically blogging about my paper part needs repetition. i am pathetically blogging about my paper.

but isn't this what blogs are for?

"i have only words to play with!" humbert humbert.

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