It's 12:07 and I officially never have to read another theorist's arbitrary spewings again. It's over. Am handing the fabled essay in tomorrow morning - it sits quietly next to me, crisply printed and perfectly formatted. After the tears and concerns over just how white I am and what that might mean and electricity trip dramas, it's over.
After another mad night out, I have gained another elbow graze - a particularly viscious one, I might add - to match the other one, gained last Friday. It's in exactly the same place, just on the other arm. The symmetry clearly disturbed a guy friend over lunch in my dining hall, who looked at me, wide-eyed, as I showed him my elbows.
"Dude, that's like... stigmata."
This is a 
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