The Headless Galah

A kind of generalised disgust with no clear object permeates my experience of TM these days. Probably nothing more than a particular instance of the overall malaise inspired in me by almost everything that bills itself as culture. But the particularities, in this case, by dint of some kind of sunk-costs calculation - wasted too much of my life on this fucking website, har har, haven't we all, all the hours lost to a glowing rectangle which promised all the validation you'd ever want as long as you ...

This is not where I live.




But it is close.

(about 15 minutes away)

This is a place not too far from where I live. It's where we pan up as the ED starts playing on the final episode.



And so is this.

Previously, on Self/Destruct:

>be me
>high-achieving History student at top-shelf Aussie university

One man.

>USB directory tree status has been reverted to what it was a week ago, before I reorganised all of it for honours
>reason for this is unknown and likely unknowable
>folders and files created since then have ceased to exist
>including one containing saved pdfs for bibliography
>fuzakeru na
>I ...

"You've got to be fucking kidding me."

>be me
>high-achieving History student at top-shelf Aussie university
>early in the new academic year
>shit to be done, shit's getting done
>today's project, flesh out preliminary bibliography for honours dissertation
>venue? the library
>library computers = unrestricted access to JSTOR/ProQuest/Project Muse/et.c.
>cocaine for history majors
>anyway, searching ...