outwait outrun outwit


an archive of pleasures, wounds, sublimations
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I submitted my thesis corrections on Friday morning. Utterly shattered. I can't even look at the puppy. I slept all Saturday and all of today. I feel empty, depleted by my long night's sojourn with my thesis—well, three interminable months of reading, writing, thinking, drinking, office work, and smoking dozens of cigarettes in between, with maybe one afternoon off, while confronting fears and doubts and failures, so many failures, just to get this motherfucking point. And when I hit send, without the carefully crafted message I intended to send, I just want to cry.

I wanted to cry for the naive 30-something-year old who started this journey with hopes for her academic future. I wanted to cry for the woman whose absentmindedness and lack of commitment and useless supervisors impeded her every step, stubborn anyways, losing friends and opportunities, just to finish this goddamn useless thesis. I wanted to cry for the father I wanted to call, and tell I am finished, but he is gone, and Mom is selling their house, and everything is changing again, and I feel I'm not ready for this, I've never been ready for the changes that keep coming, and coming, and coming, like waves from a stormy sea.


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