Et Sepultus Est

Hnnnnnnnngh. Holy man am I tired. OK, the essay is done, DONE! I have washed my hands of it. Washed them, I say. I'm not going to look at it again until I hand it in in two hours' time. Thank the Lord. Jordan is terrifying me right now; he's sitting across the aisle in the lab beside a nigh-architectural stack of books, most of whose titles involve Stalin. Even looking at them hurts my head.

This week I have to figure out where I can find the Arsey Empee to get my criminal record check done; it should be pretty easy, but these things have a way of escalating into impossible bureaucratic tasks. I also need to learn to operate a fax machine. Uh oh: I think that noise I hear is the Real World.

And so, to class. Hooray.