I talked to my writing instructor today about revision, because I've just been banging my head against the wall for the past two weeks. I hadn't even gone to class in a week because I've been working on this stupid paper. But it's not really the paper; it's symptomatic. What was that line Arthur Dent had about his lifestyle that caused a huge intergalactic war that one time? My copy of the Guide is still packed because I'm a damned disorganized bastard, so you'll have to tell me.
It's not like I'm lazy. I'm a ball of ambition. Too much ambition, amorphous and unfocused. Ready to move the world, but back when I had the lever, I didn't have a fulcrum. Now I've got my fulcrum (Cornell, for those keeping score), but I've lost the fucking lever.
I got my motorcycle back today. It needed all kinds of crazy maintenance because I've been neglecting it. My sprockets were about dead. Chain was seriously dry because I haven't been lubing like a good boy. Oil was dangerously low. Symptomatic.
