This weekend has been an exercise in Sloth (is that a contradiction?), that most tempting of the Seven Deadly Sins; aside from this (admittedly rather meagre) journal entry, I cannot claim to have done anything over the past three days, much less the schoolwork I should have completed. I have over fifty pages of Frederick Douglass to read for Am. Lit. by 4 p.m. today (Monday), as well as a presentation to give for that class on Wednesday, which, naturally, I have not yet started; my Brit. Lit. midterm is Tuesday, and I might just have a French quiz today (neither of which I have studied for, of course). Oh, Rapture!

I am giving very serious thought to turning in my uniform at Carl's Jr.; I simply can no longer bear the position. Between waking up hours earlier than I can afford to with my sleep cycle, unnecessarily unpleasant and anal-retentive management, and the unfulfilling, uninspiring—in a word, menial—nature of the job itself, it is just not worth it anymore. Besides, there is very likely a position that I can acquire at Papyrus (a cultured stationery store) in the Brea Mall, with a bit of effort and just a smidgen of favour from Dame Fortune. I'll only be able to work weekends, but that will still bring in more income than four days of work at Carl's Jr. ever did—besides, work in retail is so much more rewarding.

Now, since that concludes everything that could possibly be considered newsworthy, here is some information, essentially random, about life at the moment.

Listening: To complement my recent depression, I have been mainly listening to Starsailor, whose wonderfully melancholy melodies resonate with my soul. Also, thanks to Chris, my current jukebox is playing Toybox, a group whose resemblance to Aqua is uncanny; and "Love to Hate You," an 80s New Wave single by Erasure, to which I have become addicted. (Select tracks: "Fever," "Talk Her Down," "Coming Down" [Starsailor]; "Russian Lullaby," "The Sailor Song," "Prince of Arabia" [Toybox].)
Reading: I just finished Who's Who in Hell, by Robert Chalmers; this is an extremely well-written, albeit somewhat tragic, first novel by a very talented Briton. I'm now working on A Confederacy of Dunces (John Kennedy Toole), Jane Eyre (Charlotte Brontë), and Sin and Syntax (Constance Hale).
Penchants: I've recently taken a fancy to California rolls (a stepping stone in my path to proper sushi) and mochi (Japanese ice cream wrapped in some sort of rice mixture—fascinating texture, and delicious!), and would like to try wagashi (beautifully designed Japanese pastries) sometime, if I can ever find a place around here that sells it.
Guilty habits: Spongebob Squarepants—no matter how hard I try not to like this show, it still makes me laugh; and Irish Creme coffee creamers, which I drink straight (like throwing back shots, but without the alcohol!) and in every Starbucks Caramel Macchiato.

Because this entry is a tad short (it is 4:30 a.m., after all, and I need to wake up in three hours), I shall post some poetry from the Collected Works of Eric Jeffus. The first, "Omnia vincit amor," was written for an assignment in AP Literature & Composition last year, but nevertheless carries sentiments close to my heart; it is a Spenserian sonnet, which means that it has an interlocking rhyme scheme (ABAB BCBC CDCD EE) that makes the poem much more difficult to write than the more common Shakespearean sonnet. I wanted to include some archaisms and allusions to mythology, to give it that neo-Classical feel.

O wretched heart, how doth thy rhythm beat
Within my battered chest! With forceful blows
Thou art a vanquishment, my sole defeat;
Mere depredation of a ruin'd repose.
Nepenthe cannot blot out my fell woes,
Nor can my wrackčd soul the Lethe cure.
But as the seething Phlegethon bestows
Its flame eterne, so doth my love endure.
For death cannot destroy the world's allure,
Though its cold grasp may quell the mortal coil.
A corpse may putrefy, but love most pure
Transcends; the grave does not true love despoil.
     In death our transient flesh dank earth consumes,
     Yet love uplifts the soul and thus exhumes.

The second, "Thought," just came to me one night as I was falling asleep. It is free verse, and I think that its jumbled but somehow logical form speaks volumes about the nature of human thought itself.

[Exit Orpheum.]