Oh, Lord have mercy!

I am in the midst of writing a research paper on U.S. sanctions on Burma. It is a typical story. Girl has assignment, girl avoids thinking about assignment, writing assignment, up until a week before it is due. Girl regrets her consistent past decisions to not work on her assignment, for it would have made this current week a lot more easy for her. Grant it, this particular story has some sweet plot twists, like this evening, for example.

I finally saw the Detroit Cobras! I manage to miss out on seeing them every time they come by either Detroit or Cleveland, but thanks to my mentor, I had a ball with Jane Claire as we drunkenly twisted and mash potatoed to garage rock covers of old R&B tunes. It was fun to just go out and dance to a live band, and judging by the lack of a crowd, it seems not too many people want to do that these days...fuck them.

I am actually appreciating the process of writing this paper. I wake up, I create, I go out and have fun. Its an honest way to be. A part of me is pained that I am not outside, fully enjoying DC and its first fall of snow. I have about a week left here in DC, and I dare say, I will miss this town. There are so many more museums I have let to see. Hello, Air and Space museum? And all the African American historic sites I never got around to seeing because I am a bad white person! Argh!

No, its not just that. I have fallen for living in a new place, making new connections, living my life. But lets stop beating around the truth. I am smitten by a certain someone, someone I would rather not leave to go back to Ann Arbor just yet, and would rather spend my time with than writing about Burma. The reason I am typing frantically over sanctions and this troubled Southeast Asian country is because I have spent too much time falling in love. I wonder as I write this assignment if I will regret my choices if I do not receive the grade I feel entitled to, if my undergraduate career of last-minute bullshitting will not carry me through. Should I place a footnote for the professor, explaining that being alive is just as important as, if not more than, producing a 20+ page qualitative research paper on some social/political topic? Or perhaps all my charm and graceful encounters with Ifie will rub her the right way and she will give me a good mark. Or she will see right through me. Either way, I only have the moment.