lazy little shit

So, upon foolishly procrastinating writing my paper comparing Greame Newman's "That Wonderful Utilitarian Punishment Scheme" (1981) and Michel Foucault's "The Body Condemned" from Discipline and Punish, I have resolved myself to the fact that the damn thing is going to be handed in a day late. This embarasses me as I only have myself to blame. Sometimes I can write an essay in a few hours and still garner an A. Other times, such as Sunday and last night, I can grind away on the topic and come up with nothing useful. Nothing flows as I write, and if this carries on for more than a few hours I give up and pursue other activities. I should have it finished this evening, although I still have nothing to write about. Right now, I can only criticize Foucault for writing in such a verbose style that has the effect of alienating all but the academic elite. If Foucault is so critical of the Power/Knowledge paradigm-that is, that those who possess the power can create the knowledge, and vice versa- why does he subscribe to it? Obviously, being a respected French philosopher and historian, Foucault is in the position to create a certain kind of knowledge. The fact that his complex style of writing excludes the powerless seems to me very hypocritical and even suspicious.
When I'm like this; lazy, procrastinating, unimaginative, I feel that graduate school is not, after all, for me. This is a depressing thought: I have thrived on the notion, my entire life, that I am particularly intelligent. My mother, eager to mold me in her image, constantly reminded me of the importance of being of an academic persuasion. Now I wish I was additionally given something else. If I fail in academia, I don't know what else is left. And those weird, 'self-discovery' backpacking trips people take across Thailand, that seem to last years, seem so banal.
I had a strange dream last night. I was supposed to have dinner with Mike W. We sat for a while, but then he quickly left me with the excuse that he had other plans. Feeling alone and abadoned, I proceeded to the movie theatre on Esplanade to spend the evening by myself. Lonely, sulking. In the theatre I ran into Birk T., whom I haven't been friends with since early highschool, but who has, in his own way, impacted my life. I thought that I would have dinner with him instead, but he left me to spend the night with the hideous Laura Brown. Further, on my way to the seabus, I ran into Kate Bond, an arts rival from Lord Tennyson elementary. She too was to busy to humour me. Lastly I ran into Mary. I wanted to spend the night at her apt., but she blew me off as she had to work the next morning.
This dream is quite boring. The only thing that strikes me about it is its long list of characters, some of whom I haven't seen nor thought about in years.
Malcolm woke me at 3am with heavy snoring. I gave him a Charlie-horse to the thigh. He momentarily awoke, confused, and then fell back asleep.