Bad Day by R.E.M.
Mr. Cab Driver by Lenny Kravitz
Teardrop by Massive Attack
As I lay, trapped beneath a pile of books on health and medicine in the Eighteenth Century, I can almost see the light. I keep repeating that it's really not all that scary, that my thesis will be written one way or another, and that the pendajo recalling my library books will be vanquished in a battle to the death involving Grendel, Uncle Toby and Pierre Pettigrew.
Yes, a word about Pierre Pettigrew. The man is gorgeous. The hair. The little nose. The accent. I'm sure all the poli-sci folk are going to shout at me for this, so let me make it clear that I don't really care for his politics, corporate connections, etc. This is purely asthetic. Although, as D informs me, Pierre has nothing on the Foreign Affairs Minister, who apparently is a real fox.
I wonder if Pierre could do anything about my recalled library books? He'd come sweeping in, hair all flowy, with a substantial GST rebate cheque in hand. Claiming bureaucratic mismanagement, he would deport the pendajo of the recalled library books to Syria, regardless of the fact that the pendajo holds Canadian, or possibly American, citizenship. My books returned to my office, we would "borrow" a government jet and fly off to... but I'm getting ahead of myself here. And there is still that matter of the restraining order*.
Also, I have been marking in-class essays and feel compelled to mention that dangling gerunds are now medically treatable.
* I feel compelled to explain that this is a joke. I explain this not so much for your benefit, as I have no doubt of your intelligence, but for mine. What can I say? El Department of Homeland Security tienen muchos cabrones, and I'd rather not end up like Arar.