There was this paper, which ate weeks of my life and has finally been submitted in the middle of the night last, er, night. I'm sure it will continue to haunt me in other, more subtle ways. But now, to celebrate:

I'm terza rima, and I talk and smile. Where others lock their rhymes and thoughts away I let mine out, and chatter all the while. I'm rarely on my own - a wasted day Is any day that's spent without a friend, With nothing much to do or hear or say. I like to be with people, and depend On company for being entertained; Which seems a good solution, in the end. What Poetry Form Are You?

Er, totally, totally wrong?Because, er, I sort of dislike people. It's nothing personal.

Thankfully, the alternate choice suits me that much better:

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I am the sonnet, never quickly thrilled;
Not prone to overstated gushing praise
Nor yet to seething rants and anger, filled
With overstretched opinions to rephrase;
But on the other hand, not fond of fools,
And thus, not fond of people, on the whole;
And holding to the sound and useful rules,
Not those that seek unjustified control.
I'm balanced, measured, sensible (at least,
I think I am, and usually I'm right);
And when more ostentatious types have ceased,
I'm still around, and doing, still, alright.
In short, I'm calm and rational and stable -
Or, well, I am, as much as I am able.</td></tr></table> What Poetry Form Are You?
</td></tr></table>

Because all my seething happens on the inside.


I wish I would stop using Ctrl-Y for inserting text already. Fucking Emacs.

... or, er, typing things like '\lj-cut'. Fucking LateX.