I go home this week, and that's scary.

[logicbutton]

Okay, I have just written in two days the equivalent of an eighteen-page paper on a story by Kafka that is only two pages long. I want a fucking PRIZE. Alternatively, an ice cream cone.

Mmm, ice cream.

In related news, that's the last paper. So now all I have to do is revise them, put them in shiny colorful report covers, and turn them in. Also pack. And do all the stuff I want to do before I leave Germany. *sniff*

So anyway, while writing the Hausarbeit o'Doom, I came to the conclusion that if Kafka were a teenager today, he would totally have either a lj or a xanga. Actually, he would have two, and both of them would basically consist of white or gray Courier New text on a black background, possibly accented with an ugly .gif or two. One of them would be his writing journal, which he would use to post his depressive fantasies in which his Gary Stu hero with a soul that is a black, black rose is beaten to a pulp by the mean kids in high school, and his father tells him not to worry, that they only do it because he's a loser. The other would be his personal journal, where he would share his musings on cutting and the increasing blackness that is the rose of his soul, due to his father taking away the car keys. But he does write good meta, and that is why I <3 him. Also, he was pretty cute.

I can just imagine what the journals would degenerate into when he contracted tuberculosis. Transcripts of the conversations he would have from his hospital bed with his father, probably. "I did research on this!" he would rasp in either German or Czech. "If I had lived a century ago, this throat inflammation would have killed me! They wouldn't have invented IVs yet and I would have STARVED TO DEATH. How would you like THAT, old man? I bet you'd love it, wouldn't you, watching me waste away into--hey, where are you going? YOU JUST DON'T CARE ABOUT MY PAIN"

The next day, his writing journal would be updated with a story about Gary Stu Josef K. being suddenly unable to eat, and getting thinner and weaker every day, until one day he disappeared altogether and all that remained on his bed were the wilted remains of a black, black rose.