Ptichka asked me how I wanted to celebrate landing on Tuesday. We're assuming that Canada is going to welcome my over-educated arse with open arms. In all honesty, I'd like to celebrate by quitting my degree and doing something the thought of which doesn't make me want to vomit. I admitted this dream to Pitchka and then she vetoed it. I suppose living with a depressed and angsty spouse is one thing. Living with a depressed, angsty, and regret-filled spouse is another.
For both our sakes, I'll finish, if only because les boys have promised me a custom tee-shirt that reads "It's Dr. Dyke to You." And I've been promised by le boy who has a "Dr. Faggot to You" tee-shirt already that after the defense the sky is bluer and food tastes better and you look ten years younger and feel ten pounds lighter. Food already tastes pretty good but I could stand to be a bit more rosy-cheeked than I am now.
Unfortunately, the apathy in my office is so thick, you could cut it with a knife. It's tough to finish something that's this hard and about which you care so little. I'm trying to decide if my own personal sisyphean hell would be washing an endless stream of dishes or revising my dissertation. Diss revisions are winning at the moment.
At the end of the day, I suppose, I can only take comfort in the fact that this will all end sme day and in the wisdom of a good friend whom I've been ignoring: Albert Camus.
By the mere activity of consciousness I transform into a rule of life what was an invitation to death -- and I refuse suicide. I know, to be sure, the dull resonance that vibrates throughout these days. Yet I have but a word to say: that it is necessary.
Merci, Albert. What doesn't kill me can only make me stronger, non?