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Jeepers creepers.

I’ve just come back from Boston, where I spent three days networking (with people in my profession and with friends of my traveling companion) and slowly developing an inferiority complex (my traveling companion met his friends whilst teaching English in South Korea for a year). I love Boston, though I don’t much like networking, my profession/the likelihood of getting stable employment in it soon after I graduate, or, well, myself, when I’m talking myself into feeling small and pointless.

I did, however, manage to buy a large black sweater at H&M, which is Traveling Companion’s favorite store. It is the equivalent of wearing one of my dad’s old sweatshirts when I feel like death, but, on the plus side, I still look kind of like I’m trying to be a participatory human. Have not decided whether I am or not. Have decided that I need some black shoes for when I am trying to be a witch/goth/sad sack. Navy blue Converse low-tops do not exactly complete that look. Neither does having stolen my cousin’s hair tie to yank all my wet hair up into an extremely ill-advised very small bun thing, but if she will insist on leaving them on the cabinet handle I will insist on occasionally stealing them.

Which reminds me: I need Drano, and toilet paper, apparently, and probably food of some kind if I am going to insist on being confined to the physical realm, and possibly also kimchi. (See also the quasi-expats: incidentally, they were extremely nice and pleasant people and I liked them very much, slight tendency to talk about Korea like their pet culture aside.)

Mostly, though, I need to write papers that are due in the next two weeks and come up with some kind of life plan other than “leave! Now! And never come back!” in the Gollum voice as appropriate. (Very appropriate, of late.) I learned a lot, and I should put at least some of that to use other than as fuel for my nigh-constant paranoia. I should also clean my house, and figure out what to do with the cat, and and and and. Start with coffee, kid: that’s the trick. If all my synapses start firing wildly at the exact same time, surely some of them must hit something more or less useful?

How do I not have black shoes? What kind of a failure of a fond-of-clothes human person am I? Sheesh.

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