I've been working for, like, 12 hours at this point, and am STILL nowhere near being prepared for tomorrow.

I HATE writing my dissertation. I have NO interest in making it prettier by spring. Can't they just hand me the P., H., and D. now? And then I can go disappear and make donuts for a living somewhere? I think I'd be pretty baller at it. And people might pay me for my hard work, too—fancy that!

I also hate thinking about slavery, and sugar, and the Caribbean, and beaches, and pleasure, and novels, and Britain, and white people, and literature. I probably hate all of those things, independent of thinking about them.

I'm tired. I need a hug. I needed one several hours ago, too. I'm listening to terrible music on Spotify. Mom called tonight to say that Uncle N wrote to say that Aunt J died.

Well, shit.

And also: good for her. Good for her for dying. She admitted that she wasn't going to get better, stopped treatment this summer, and now she's gone. That's brave. I hope she wasn't in too much pain, and that she was surrounded by people she loved, and that she wasn't terrified. I think Uncle N's going through some shit—I assume that's why he wrote and didn't call. (But also because our family is weird.)  He's had to be brave, too.

This is part of why I hate living here. This distance from everyone, the multiplication of phone call on letter.

I want to go home! I DON'T WANT TO LIVE ON THE EAST COAST EVER, EVER, EVER AGAIN IN MY WHOLE LIFE. THIS PLACE IS THE WORST.