tragedy, revenge & essays

If I do dream, would all my wealth would wake me! If I do wake, some planet strike me down, That I may slumber in eternal sleep! Speak, gentle niece, what stern ungentle hands Have lopp'd and hew'd and made thy body bare Of her two branches, those sweet ornaments, Whose circling shadows kings have sought to sleep in, And might not gain so great a happiness As have thy love? Why dost not speak to me? Alas, a crimson river of warm blood, Like to a bubbling fountain stirr'd with wind, Doth rise and fall between thy rosed lips, Coming and going with thy honey breath.

Act II, scene iv, Titus Andronicus, Shakespeare

This merry month of May: -- the thought of writing one more word of one more essay makes lobotomy sound like a distinct relief --going to class results in the ownership of a lurid green book titled "A Guide to Certifying Causes of Death" and more rapid-fire sharing of dead baby anecdotes than I can safely squeeze from my consciousness in a sanity-keeping period of time --it becomes irritatingly clear that it's possible for some people to regard vast periods of silence as invitation to continue doing the opposite --I become so incredibly feeble-minded that I cry watching America's Next Top Model vote out another contender so devoid of admirable characteristics that it's actually extremely embarassing I even sat through 3 seconds of the show at all. --my classmate washes my dishes, massages my back with lavender/orange/chammomile oil and makes favourable comments about my mammary glands, all in one night. She's a keeper. At least I end things on a less gruesome note? (my apologies for the grisle, but I do love Titus - I reccomend you go watch the movie if you're feeling bloodthirsty and literary at the same time)