"I am a sick man. I am a spiteful man... I am an unattractive man. I believe my liver is diseased." (Opening lines of Notes from Underground by Dostoevsky.)

Okay, so I don't think I'm sick and I don't think I'm unattractive (unless I'm in a temper), and I know my liver is not diseased... But I am most certainly spiteful. In fact, I identify with the imaginary writer of Notes from Underground on many, many points in that respect.

I sent Professor D an e-mail today telling him he spoiled my fun on Monday, but I have changed my essay so it will be drab and serious. Wait, I changed my mind and didn't use "drab"; sorry. (Probably a good thing...) I also asked him if there were going to be more essays to be written, and said that I would try to change my attitude toward them before the next essay (I explained that I had not planned to beforehand) so I would not write a very poor essay.

I was fighting bile rising up the whole time.

That is not a very attractive phrase.

It's another way of saying I was very bitter as I wrote the e-mail.

Gosh, I hate essay-writing. I wish Professor D hadn't humiliated me in front of the class on Monday. That would've helped... If he would've just seen it as funny...

Well, bile is rising again; I must stop. And finish my essay. Dratted essay.... >:(

-Stephanie

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