It ain't over til

It's over. And by "it," I of course mean the Proust class from. Not hell. Just Proust.

And by "over," I mean that I read every page (skimmed every page), wrote my 12-page paper, stayed awake through the last two-point-five hours of lecture, received my grade (it was shiny and A), and let my boss read the final product.

Let me repeat that last bit: My boss, or rather, my boss's boss, wanted to read my Proust paper. And she didn't stop asking. I kept trying to distract her with shiny objects and minor policy benders, but no luck. She wanted to read my paper. So I let her. And now, somehow, it all feels over.

Other thoughts in the "Feelings" category:

1. I took the pain killers tonight. The ones that work. Also the ones that keep me awake. I always forget about that part. And then I start blogging.

2. Using "the" unnecessarily makes me happy.

3. I'm missing my family more and more lately. I want nothing more than a night in Bountiful, eating Chuck Deli sandwiches, watching Sam scoot around the table, and Abby explain why she only has to eat three bites. And then I want to come back to Chicago.

4. This isn't a feeling, but a poem of mine won a contest. First prize. First prize was an espresso machine.

5. First prize is still wrapped in its box.

Maybe that's all for tonight, but you know what happens next. Once I start blogging, I can't stop myself. Or maybe I just won't stop myself.


PS. The Proust paper made the argument that Proust's narrator states that to experience and create art, the artist must be alone, separate from society--and yet, he refutes that argument with a six-volume novel populated by hundreds of characters, in which the artist only truly achieves something when he has come in contact with other people.