there's more to life than books, you know

So evidently the feeling you get when you finally print out all 109 pages of your thesis draft is...anti-climax. Maybe it's because my appleworks-cum-word document was being an absolute pain in the ass ((oh, where'd this indented quote go? off the imaginary margin of the screen!)), or maybe it's because the intro and conclusion are nowhere near as good as the rest of it is, but there it is, denouement and a thick fat pile of barely-stapled thesis to my left, complete with a hot-pink post-it to my thesis advisor.

At least til I get my hands on an English translation of Limited Inc and get some comments back, I'm...done with it, for a little while. Yay!

1. What does it cost to tell the truth?

2. I'm finally starting to work on my thesis, which feels good. It's been dreary and rainy all day which also feels kind of good. I went to the gym for an hour and a half and only realized that I was sort of procrastinating once I'd finished my last set of sit-ups and felt my whole body tightened pleasantly.

3. So much for waking up early, but I did have enjoyably epic dreams about stealing and editing books and receiving strange packages from far-flung boys, spinning the locale from vaguely Philly-like cities to my old nextdoor neighbor's backyard.

So then there's always that problem that I articulated to Nicole probably freshman year or shortly thereafter, that urge to develop some theory that includes everything (without, of course, being totalizing, but just being so holographic and tight that it somehow speaks to everything I'm interested in). It's a tongue-in-cheek urge, but it still comes out now and again. I said something about wanting to have it all written down. Nico's response? "Yeah, you could write it all down in a little red book and carry it everywhere you go!"

Words to the wise, those. My thesis 'outline' keeps spiraling out, which is both exciting and worrisome. I mean, why not include a brief and relevant discussion of the import of becoming-intelligible alongside the exploration of the role of melancholia in Judith Butler's work on gender? Well, one good reason why not is that it could just be sloppy. But it *could* work, if I link it to some questions about the affective aspects of thinking sexual difference as a virtual multiplicity. And that will only work if I make that problem a main thrust of my argument, which has yet to emerge in any specific form.

Anyway, doing my work is cheering me up a bit, or at least distracting me from the gravity of afore-mentioned mommy-daddy-me stuff. I can't lose my focus now!