teapots

I'm sitting here smoking hookah, listening to Heather Duby and writing in regrettably short spurts about Ethel Waters, jazz maven and, apparently, heinous bitch. This paper is just about two weeks late, but admittedly, I have really significant problems getting things done on time. I mean, the problem is that I'm really incapable of concentrating on one thing for more than five minutes. Example, I'm doing three things at the moment, and I also have a game of tetris started (on oldschool nintendo, none of that internet horseshit), and a novel I'm supposed to have finished for another class sitting open next to me amidst chocolates and a cup of english breakfast tea. Maybe I'm just a stimulation addict. Plus I'm extremely sex-deprived, which is never a good thing. I'm addicted to human touch, as I think most normally functioning humans are. Apparently they're saying that the way fathers should bond with their babies is to place the child on their bare chest and just lie there with them, as skin-to-skin contact is one of the most effective ways to share energy and love. I believe it. Nothing is more electric or comforting than contact with another body, be it sexual or platonic. Alas, my body of choice is in Kenya, and has been since August. This isn't sitting well with me, and neither are a lot of other things, but it's such a huge affair for me to ask for help that I've given up for the time being. And so this cup of tea and a constant stream of smoke and visual stimuli are going to keep me going until Thanksgiving, when I finally, thank Christ, get a chance to detox.

Back to (maybe) work. Wish me luck.