(no subject)

I finally finished that awful Fountainhead essay. Or at least finished it in the sense that I have an intro, conclusion, and all my thoughts in between. It still needs polishing. But no longer will I have it hanging over my head like a malevolent cartoon anvil, no longer will I feel guilt when my mother asks, "So how's that essay coming?" while I read something interesting and fantasy-like. No longer will I need to include the essay in my mental stress-list of homework.

Now I get to psyche out about the talent show. Why do I do this to myself?