2003-09-11 - 10:55am
location: 19th century Russian literature in translation discussion section
The last week or so has been a hard one. First I had PMS, so I was crazy over that. And then yesterday I was under the influence of yellow #5, so I was crazy because of that... wandering around the library parking lot, trying to blink back tears and distract myself by concentrating on listening to the Hunchback of Notre Dame (which is my current book on tape).
On top of that, I have been experiencing Relationship Issues. Oh, it's too complicated to go into here. And I should really be discreet. Sometimes I can succeed in doing that. It's pretty amazing. Maybe it means that I'm growing up. Maybe I'm maturing. Maybe someday I'll grow breasts too.
For some reason, my flat-chestedness has been bothering me lately. I was watching Moulin Rouge the other night (in a fit of self-loathing, I guess, since that movie always does twisted things to my emotions) and that prompted me to dig out my beautiful lingerie (I'm so in love with my corsets and bustiers) and prance around in them. But I would look much better in them if I had breasts. Even in the tightest corset my cleavage was pathetic. In general, I think bigger breasts would be more trouble than they're worth, but I wish I could just sort of add them on in appropriate situations.
In general, and on other people, I am very fond of breasts. I just wish they didn't cause the trouble that they do with bras and sagging and stuff. Damn evolutionary biology.
In other news about my body, I got a blister on my foot the other night from runing a mile to catch a bus in my new Doc Martins (oh god, I really love those boots). But anyway, I think it might be getting infected the area around it has gotten all tender and red. Maybe it'll turn black and fall off. Then I could stick it in my freezer and haul it out to gross people out. Unless my cat gets it first. She'd (literally) be all over a disembodied foot.
Or maybe it'd be like this.
I just learned in class that Nabokov was a stickler for detail. And since I seem to be the only one in class that prefers Nabokov's translation of Eugene Onegin to Falen's, I must be a stickler for details too. I'm willing to accept that. Grammar, spelling, and especially semantics are way important.
Pushkin had a foot fetish. Hee hee. Too bad he's been dead for 200 or so years. We could've hooked up.
