Arghhhhhhhhhhh!

Too much academic writing for one year. Four separate projects, all very abstract and theoretical. I am brilliant (seriously, I can only sometimes say this and when I do I mean it) but I am tapped! I am just too exhausted to produce ONE MORE FUCKING WORD.

Above all I loathe "minor revisions." Because, you know, they are not really minor. Minor = make some highly acrobatic theoretical twists in about four very precise words. Right now all of the refining and developing and clarifying is pure torture. The ideas are there, I can see how to better explain and connect them, I can see what the editors need, but if I do not get up from the desk (and I mean get up from it not to return any time in the near future) I am going to scream.

I am wiped. I am burnt. I am sick to death of writing. Too much. Jesus. And no way to say "fuck it" at this point. I just have to keep it up. I do not know how to deal, short of throwing file cabinets and other heavy objects out of the garret window.

Just to be safe, wherever you are, look up.

[Edited 7/28/06, 9:20 a.m. to add: Today I feel like kind of a fuckwit for posting this little temper tantrum. Especially the "I'm a brilliant scholar producing complex brilliance!" bit. Writing continues. No heavy objects thrown. I think the long and the short of the problem is this: it's hard to write without chain-smoking Camel Lights, and this is the first time I have had to do so for an extended period of time. So, I now handily and totally blame Long-Suffering Boy AND the unfortunate dearth of cigarettes in my life for all recent crazy mood-swing problems.]