Tuesday Hatred: Continence
I hate it when one feels knocking at one’s back door, as it were, excremental masses to which one cannot give an outlet, because one is, for instance, walking down the street, or driving. Partial relief in such cases can be found by loosening one’s belt (or, depending on where one is, outright unbuttoning one’s pants) but the effect is of limited duration; soon enough the urgent stuff has adjusted to its slightly changed circumstances and renewed its pleas to be let out. What’s worse, when finally one does reach a location where one can yield to one’s inner demands, it often isn’t even a very satisfying experience.
I hate that at this late date I am still finding things out that I should have known or seen much earlier about my dissertation, resources it can draw on, how the task should be prosecuted, etc.
I hate that my foot continues to be fucked up.
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