We watch her fall over and lay down, shouting the poetic truths of high school journal keepers.

Two more weeks!

Yes, just two more weeks left of this semester. Two more weeks of papers, reading assignments, and -- of course -- finals. Two more Red Bull chugging, hair pulling, chronically nauseating weeks.

I don't know what I should find more astonishing, the fact that the semester has gone by so quickly, or the fact that I've (thusfar) made it through without performing a self-inflicted lobotomy and/or hitting the crack pipe.

It has been hard to focus on school for the past few weeks because I'm so excited.

Here's why I'm excited: Larissa's coming!

It's been a long time coming and, after a few botched visitation plans and one concieved trip gone horribly awry, it's finally here. She is flying into OKC on the 27th. Period. No bullshit. It's final. It's frightening.

I only say it's frightening because I worry that she'll be bored -- not just here, in Oklahoma, but with me. I'm afraid that spending a week with me, sleeping on my floorbound queen-sized matress and reading back issues of The New Yorker all day while I work at the espresso bar isn't as romantic as it sounds. But I don't know.

I don't really feel like writing, I just wanted to have something to document this wonderfully exciting time in my life.

- Jezy

I had a dream that I used all of your contact lense solution. I cut my hair and you made a meal.

Remember that time I said that I was being unproductive?

Well, I just finished a brain-busting, seven-hour study session for my History Since exam tomorrow. Just sayin'.

Nevermind that I've attended that class once in the past month. My buddy Ollen (whose attendance record is equally poor) and I got the notes from a wonderful woman whose study materials were so extensive that I believe she may have missed her calling as a court reporter; we then combed through them, re-writing every word, from 3:00 to 10:00.

We were steadfast. We were determined. We were Bruce Lee in Game of Death. We stopped only for bad Mexican food.

Hopefully I haven't grown so accustomed to sleeping through that class that I miss the test. I'm a firm believer in the theory of Post-It Note Motivation: "If you miss class again, you'll hate yourself;" "Don't smoke;" "Eat breakfast;" "The world does not start and stop at your convenience, you miserable piece of shit," and so on.

Tomorrow's will read, "Go to class. Buy scantron. Take test. Get off intellectual high horse because, seriously, it's kind of sad that you haven't gone to class in a month. Spend rest of day toiling in library, writing paper on Camus until you feel like the only plausible conclusion to your day would be painting the walls of your messy-ass room with your brains."

- Jezy

And she said "Honey, here's a quarter -- go put it in a washing machine!"

Once again, I find myself caught in the throws of yet another unproductive semester. What's worse than that, I think, is my superbly tuned ability to fool myself. "This year," I tell myself ritually, "this year is going to be different. I'm going to go to class! I'm going to get organized! I'm going to take it easy on the mind-altering substances!" I always halfway believe it, too.

So, I've got this paper on The Stranger that I need to be writing. This essay is particularly important to me for a number of reasons: 1.) I love this book. My life simply hasn't been the same since I first read it in high school. I spent hours listening to Radiohead and contemplating the estrangement inherent in an indifferent and ultimately cruel cosmos (which, at Seventeen, was limited to twelve o'clock curfews and unreciprocated high school crushes.) Thing is, I have a very hard time writing critically about books that I love -- especially books as sparse and enigmatic as The Stranger. 2.) I just got off severely mind-numbing medication, and I'm worried that the bad papers I tried to pass off as being the result of the medicine's side effects, which include but are not limited to an inability to focus, lack of ambition, depressive and/or suicidal tendencies, and a general loss of interest may actually be indicative of a larger problem with my writing.

I don't know. There's a lot of pressure to do well. It's more for me than anyone else; and, even though I find myself saying that a lot, I think I mean it this time. I just want to prove that I haven't lost "the touch" -- that I can still write well and with confidence. But with two incredibly lackluster papers under my belt in this class, the apprehension is absolutely crushing.

How's that for dramatic?

Other than that, things are going well. Life without the meds is great. Now I realize just how much I love my job, my new place, and my friends. Gone is the haze of anxiety and general depression (though you probably wouldn't be able to tell from my previous rant) that clouded my vision all semester. It feels almost like seeing the world for the first time in three months.

There's more to report, but I should really get back to the intellectual grindstone. By that, I mean I should resume my staring contest with The Stranger and see which one of us breaks first. Place your bets now.

- Jezy