JIll Soloway, Saloway, Solaway etc

Jill Soloways says she checks even mispelled incarnations of her own name in google. So I hope she finds this. If she does, well, she will know someone who just happens to be spontaneously decomposing over glycolysis and got a C on his wonderful article about protein targeting and the calnexincycle mentioned her just off-beat. She has started blogging again, so everyone rejoice.
(Not that anyone reads this. But in my own head I'm like super popular and people love me)

Of course, this post isn't really about Jill Sallowai. Even though she is fabelous and wonderful, like so many others. This post is really about me never being able to let go when I get a shitty grade. Why do I constantly vy for acknowledgment from a completely unpersonal form of authoral figure?

Why can't I just like what I do, and not think of the fact that I have to know certain things to painstalking detail, have to memorize all the fucking enzymes that catalyze the fucking glycolysis and the fucking gluconeolysis and the fucking metabolic fucking pathway?

Probably because my way of diversing myself from the other fucking entities of normality has been by being smart, being creative, being a talker, being a homosexual, being intersting. So if I am not smart, that means I am one less defining characteristic away from being really interesting, and one closer to being just a part of uniformality.
And in a way, my yearning to be special sort of makes me just as dull as everyone else.

It's a lose lose situation.

In other news: Done Neil Gaiman's Sandman, love it, still stuck on chapter 3, but not because I am really stuck, but because I haven't had time or energy. Done Choke, the Paulhaniuk book, done Burgess, done Sigur Ros.

Think you can die from being oversexed?

PS: Took the picture a cold Monday morning, waiting for the bus. The letters spoke to me.