Homework? Naaaaah

Anders stops counting after a while and grants himself this one thing to have all for himself. Some mornings he wakes up hard with the dream-scent of Hawke on his fingers and briskly does his business right before opening his clinic to Darktown’s citizens. Some nights the Old Gods’ call rings silent as he tosses and turns to more pleasurable visions, his hand inevitably wandering down to the tent in his pants. Sometimes he even takes breaks throughout the day. Eventually they all blur with the passing months (and years—years?) into an endless string of half-formed fantasies and fully formed wishes that always leave him wanting.

He would not have so much trouble abstaining were it not for the curious fact that Hawke still asks for him regularly, whether to help her gather this herb or that reagent for Solivitus, to treat the frequent wounds she and her group acquire on their misadventures, or to simply be an extra player at the table in The Hanged Man on Wicked Grace nights—or Diamondback, take his pick. Anders walks away with empty pockets at the end of every game, but decides it is worth losing to that blighted elf just to see her relaxed and smiling with her feet propped up on the table.

On certain days, Anders manages to convince himself that he does not need her. That he does not want her. That the mere glimpse of the nape of her neck does not send him into a heady tailspin of unwanted images and explicit sequences in the middle of combat. That he does not lo—no. So the sleepless nights, the restless afternoons, and every other hour in between can all be overcome by sheer force of will—of which he has none.

Hawke could never know how much he aches for her nor how often the image of her hair down interrupts his writing sessions, his manifesto left forgotten on the table for the umpteenth time as he takes himself in hand. Establishing a routine is far too easy as he pushes Justice to a corner in his mind and mentally wanders down the length of her back, tight and sinewy with muscle, skims his fingers up her thighs, buries his nose in her cleft, sucking and inhaling until he cannot breathe for want of her. Anders’ shoulders slump afterwards, although in frustration or exhaustion he cannot tell.

And when he just so happens to meet her eyes across the tavern—or cave, shore, forest, whatever—and Hawke being bloody Thomas Hawke, gives him a hint of a smile in acknowledgment, she has absolutely no way of knowing the heat drawn tight in his groin or the ongoing internal struggle between what he wants and what he/Justice wants. Or rather, the insidious part of his mind suggests, she knows exactly what Anders is going through whenever she looks at him and chooses to toss him scraps of her attention anyway.

Maker how he hates her.

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STOP EATING MY LIFE

Also

I'm already behind on college work.

What a SURPRISE.

I am FLABBERGASTED.

Ok, time to get shit together again.

*runs off*

Come Hell or High Water, I Will Watch This

Like a Boss

It has come to my attention that I have a big ego. This is true, for SOME things. For example:

- I know how to write dialogue, and I'm comfortable critiquing fiction/creative non-fiction (due in part to my English major background)

- I'm knowledgeable in racism, its structure, its insidious effects, and white privilege (due in part to my nonwhite background)

- I can hold my ground when discussing feminism, dissecting mansplainations, and pointing out intersectionality (due in part to my sex)

- I know a shit-ton about the restaurant business (due in part to my family's restaurant business)

- Look, I'm just really smart okay?

Yes, I WILL look my nose down on stupid folks. Yes, I WILL look my nose down on ignorant people who can't be bothered to learn more than what they've been told. No, I won't give up any of my precious time and attention listening to someone try to school me in something I know more about. Nope, just won't do it. If this makes me arrogant, if this makes me a bitch, if this makes me egoistic, then fine.

I like being called a bitch anyway.

Where is My Mind

Response?

What are with all these response papers for all of my classes? This is BULLSHIT. BULLSHIT I TELLS YEW.

French Lit - 5 response papers at 3 pages each

American Lit - 10 response papers at 350 words each

Advanced Composition - ?!?! response papers at 350 words each

And then...

American Lit - 10-12 page research paper at the semester's end

Advanced Composition - grand-ass ethnography project in which you will handmake a book containing your observations of a particular culture totaling at least 20 pages

My life. It is fucked.

Someday

Another Semester

- American Literature II MWF 8:00-8:50am

- French Literature MWF 11:00-12:00pm

- Marketing Law TR 9:30-10:45am

- International Business TR 12:30-1:45pm

...BRING IT, BITCHES.

Dreamspeak

Dreams every night since the New Year:

- on a road trip with friends, and Chad was there. We stopped at a store, and during the stop he gushes about his new girlfriend and their puppy-dog love to me. I encourage their relationship wish them well.

- I'm in a bogus college class in the inner-city somewhere and the kids inside are making a ruckus so I don't learn anything. I leave early with someone in tow. Later at night we stumble to her high-rise apartment and try to have sex, only for it to morph into some kind of threesome. The fuck.

I'm not sure what my mind's trying to tell me other than "hey look you're sexually frustrated again. And your period's coming this weekend. Cheers!"

The Omen(s)

Sooooo this is what happened on New Year's Day, the first:

1. Someone broke in/robbed one of the restaurants.

2. I had a dream last night where my blue car got run over by another truck during a freak sandstorm/windstorm in which fog was included as well, and I couldn't see shit. Oh, and my brother and his best friend were with me. Then my parents found out and kicked my ass.

Riiight. These can't be good omens for this year.