ersatz components

The thing is, I don't want to study. And I need a haircut.

I miss mornings. Which isn't to say that I'm always unconscious during mornings. It's just that most mornings for me are spent in soulless lecture halls and anemic classrooms (or, just recently, doing silly things like sitting at a booth and trying to lure bleary-eyed students into various nefarious ventures). And others, well, others are spent wallowing in an utter lack of wakeful consciousness.

Taylorism has been a pretty prominent part of my life these days. Well, that, and these tiny, despotic mathematical things that insist on disrupting the timid development of my self-esteem. So, that's Taylorism and math. I know there's something else. I want to say hot sex, but who am I kidding? I pretty much pooped on that. I guess exams. I promised myself hedonistic nihilism during the first half of reading break. But after that, (hopefully my brain won't be too fried) I'm going to go burrow myself a hole in the library and just die, just die a little more.

I have a professor who wants to have David Ricardo's babies. She looks totally affronted when we poke holes at the veritable mammoth that is Ricardian logic (ok, I don't do the actual poking, because most of the time, I'm the dunce struggling with the weight of Ricardian rhetoric). She gets a little pink and shiny in the face, and she goes on and on (rather poetically too, I'm impressed) about the elegance of his writings, the simple brilliance, the brilliant simplicity. Like Ricardo slashed his wrists with Occam's razor, and we should all prostrate ourselves on the ground and lap at his pooled blood like fuzzy kittens. She really is a nice lady though. She reminds me of my aunt. Because she's so proper and dainty and so unbearably scholastic, with her coordinated outfits, her uppity vocabulary and her oddly endearing airs.

Motherfucker. What a useless day. I was supposed to troop over to Burnaby today for a study group. Right. Then I bailed on that for tentative plans of checking out the Chinese New Year's parade with J. But I bailed on that because... well, because I'm not Chinese, and I don't see the point of pretending to care about a culture (or its commercialized, watered down equivalent) that's bloody everywhere anyway (mooncake! noodles!). That being said, omg, I miss tikoy.

I have a new appreciation for Vanessa Carlton. Yes. Sometimes, all I want to do is stay in bed all day and listen to girly music.

I went to an art gallery some weeks ago, and I saw these hopelessly adorable porcelain Chairman Mao statues. I wanted to buy the entire set, but my friend (the heartless wench) talked me out of it--mostly because buying the set would have entailed some $200. So this is how regret feels. Pure, unmitigated regret. They'd have made a better investment than the pairs of shoes I bought last week. And the shoes cost more, dammit.

I can't wait for summer. Even if Europe doesn't push through (GOD FORBID), I can't wait to go back to Manila and just bask in its shitty, battered, Third-World glory. 3 more months, 3 more months. March-April (and probably a large chunk of February), I'm sure, will be academic torture. But May, May will be fucking golden, I can just feel it. In my bones, my bloody bones.

Ok.

And thanks for laughing in my face when I asked you to come with me to the Coldplay concert. Did I laugh in your face when you bought the new Madonna CD? No. I didn't. I waited in line with you, and held your bags while you pawed at the innards of your backpack for your disturbingly red wallet. Fucker.