The... Weekly Protagitron?

I had a half-written post from Monday I kept on meaning to finish at various times through out the week and post. Then I realized that it was a week later, and I may as well start a new post from scratch. Last week's top headlines:

KITTY TOUCHDOWN
Alright, last week they shelter phoned right after I posted, and told us they thought it would be too traumatic to break up the litter of kittens, so we wouldn't be getting a cat that weekend. Cue wailing and rending of garments. Then they wanted to know if we could foster a cat with leukemia, but when they found out about Gibby the degu (see my user pic) they were worried that it would transfer to Gibby. Wait- there's a crazy trans-species Mexican jumping cancer? Scary. Anyway, no cat for a week. But then the shelter phoned again on Friday and told us a big, fat male cat would be coming our way. And he did. And then he promptly heaved his girth under Katie's bed to hide. He's come out twice since then, but he seems like a pretty nice, chill cat so I think it won't take long before he's lounging on the couch with us. Preferably watching Law and Order. He just came out to walk around the kitchen, but when I came to see he ran bakc under the bed. He lets me pet him under the bed though, and purrs adorably.

WRITERS' BLOCK AFFLICTS PROTAGITRON, DOCTORS NOT OPTIMISTIC
For the past month I've been trying to write an essay that's due Monday. I'll sit down, try and think of a decent thesis, and then abandon my efforts because my brain is a big puddle of mush and I hate Ibsen. Well, that's a lie. I just hate the poorly worded, limited topic on The Wild Duck Prof. Hammy gave us. It will be finished by Monday, but probably not finished well. So far I have three words. "The", "Wild", and "Duck".

ANXIETY ALSO AFFLICTS PROTAGITRON, EXPERTS PLACE HER AT "JOB" STATUS
As you may, or may not know, I've been trying to deal with some personal issues with a limited degree of failure, er, success lately. And it's beginning to manifest itself in annoying physical symptoms. Stop now, before it gets all TMI. I

I'm not sure what's going on with my health right now. What will tomorrow hold? Testicular cancer? Teratoma? Suspense! Alright, I'm being just a mite hyperbolic (CONSUMPTION?!?!?), but really. For some reason, I was embarrasingly anxious all through Monday. Hyperventilating, jaw-clenching, the works. And the strangest thins is that logically, I could recognize that this was ridiculous.

I even tried to fix it, but quiet time in the library didn't work. I was breathing all "heeeeeee heeeeeee" as I tried to read The Woman in White. Then, I tried eating my salad. Still extremely tense. Next thing, retail therapy, which led to me going all "heeee heeeee" in the middle of Chapters. Which, speaking of, why aren't there any decent pattern books focusing on fair isle and/or intarsia? There are lots of lovely lace books, sock books, cabling... "Hip Graphic Knits" sounds promising, and then... BEGONE COLOUR SCHEME OF THE DAMNED! THE DAMNED BRADY BUNCH! Then, I had to go to The Word to buy a book, Kant's A Critique of Judgment for class. The Word is McGill's local used bookstore, selling old textbooks, occasionally some class materials, and secondhand books in an absurdly small space. Maybe I'm just judging it by the two secondhand bookstores I'm most familiar with. Macondo, back in Guelph, is about two rooms crammed full of books of all kinds. Mainly fiction, but also kid's books, craft books, coffee table books, travel books... all packed in shelves, stacked on tables, and piled on the floor. It's a bit of jumble, and a pain to navigate when there are more than two people in the entire store, but since these are the kind of people who decorate with dried flowers and photos of Kafka, and insist on using an antique register, it's part of some ill-defined charm. J. Westcott Books is local to my apartment, and is right next to an adult store, in a nice Montreal touch. I've often wanted to have all of my dildo and Durnell needs conveniently taken care of. It's a shade more of a collector's store than Macondo, but is still fairly large, with the suitcase of 50cent pulp books and the fleet of cats. Compared to these too, the Word is about the size of a pimple, and the stock turnover outside of textbooks is very, very slow. So, I get there and the entire staff is engaged in some sort of debate over the new American passport laws. I take a tour of the store, pretending that I'm really interested in buying... whatever it is I can find on the shelves. A guidebook to Turkey! Yes, I will buy a guidebook to Turkey. From 1998. Yes. Please look at me, staff, heee heee heeee. Finally succeed in getting their attention, buy my book, and decide to try and eat my troubles away again. A bran and date muffin from Timmy's. Saturated fat has curative powers, right? Heeee heeee heeeee. Nope. Then, back to the Arts Building to try and read away my tenseness. Narrowly avoid Prof. Woodlouse. Heavy breathing worsens, my last class of the day begins, and I slowly make only a semi-ass of myself as I haltingly participate in class discussion. A slightly better end to my day.

Then, on Tuesday, I came home after my only class of the day so tired, that I pretty much just fell into bed and passed out until nineish. Figured it was just a reaction to the anxiety of the day before, but then I was tired and cranky all through Wednesday and Thursday, and then on Friday I was so tired that I had to go home before my last class. That, and my skin was a distinctly unhealthy shade of chamois, which combined with my newly resurgent eczema to make me look as if I had a new and exciting skin condition. Scarlet leprosy, say, or roving plague. Now, I know I'm probably being all hyperbolicn and it was only the flourescent lighting in Sherbrooke 688, but still. Next week I'm going to try and CALM THE HELL DOWN so I don't have a stroke, or a repeat of the stairs incident.