It's official...

I've got the senior eff-its.  I graduate in six weeks.  SIX WEEKS!!!  Totally excited to the max.  Except I won't graduate at all if I don't finish these four papers that are due in that time as well.  Er....the first one is due Tuesday.  As in, four days from now.  Is it done?  I assure you it is not!  How close to done is it, you ask?  Still in the note-taking stage.  But, Karen, shouldn't you be doing that NOW, on your last quiet day before the dudes are home all weekend being all noisy and Skywalkeresque?  Why are you, instead, blogging and playing on Facebook and shopping for maternity swimwear?  BECAUSE I'M ALL ABOUT "EFF IT!" I'M A SENIOR!  That's why.  I better get my tush moving, though, or you'll all be reading this blog next semester thinking to yourselves, "Geeeeeez, why is she STILL whining about being a senior?"

Ah, heck, I just broke a nail grabbing a book out of my backpack.  See?  SEE?!?!?  This is what happens when I start to do the work.  Broken nails.  That's okay, though, because it's the stupid "buffed" nail of doom that is not supposed to be there.  Some total Summer's Eve in the mall at one of those stupid kiosks that sells Dead Sea salts and other beauty products grabbed me and took my nail polish off of my thumb without my permission.  WTF, T?!?  I was walking by.  He tried to hand me a free sample.  I said, "No, thanks" and kept walking.  I was on a mission!  A mission to...er...well, not do this paper and hang out in the mall instead.  Anyway, I kept walking, and he pointed to my chest and said, "Oooh, can I ask you a question?"  I assumed he wanted to know if my tattoo hurt (the answer is always, yes.  There were needles grinding into my flesh.  It effing hurt.)  So, I stopped and said, "What?"  Big mistake.  I didn't realize that when he pointed at my chest, it wasn't my tattoo he was pointing at.  It was my fingernails, as I had reached up to scratch my boob.  In public.  While talking to a stranger.  Klassy with a K.  He took that, "What?" to mean "Go ahead and grab my hand and wipe my fingernail polish off of it in 0.243 seconds."  I just stared at him and then down at my nails.  I said, "Oh.  Now I have one unpolished nail and 9 pink ones.  Gee.  I look awesome."  He looked upset.  "Why are you so upset?  This technique is wonderful.  From Israel.  Invented because a woman had such a hard time keeping polish from chipping off of her fake nails."

One, my nails are real.  A fact that he refused to believe.  That's the question I didn't hear him asking when I thought he was asking about my tattoo.  "Are your nails real?"  The answer I gave to that wasn't "yes".  It was "what?"  Apparently, in Yiddish, that means "no."  So I'm trying to pull my hand away, and he's buffing the stupid thing, telling me my nails are fake, and he can tell because there's a white tip on them, and natural nails don't get that.  Great.  I'm dealing with a brain surgeon, apparently.  I finally yank my hand away, and he's like, "You are not happy, but it is beautiful!" 

No.  It isn't.  It's shiny and DIFFERENT THAN MY OTHER NINE NAILS!  Now, when I scratch my boob in public, it will be REALLY noticable.

WTF? I should work on this paper, for real.  I have another one due next Thursday, so 13 days.  Ten pages.  What stage is that one in, you ask?  It's in the "haven't even opened a Word document for it and put a name on it" stage.  This is so unlike me.  I generally have papers done at least a month in advance.  =/