Finals week begins:

When I'm done, I'm burning this book. Throwing it across the room, then burning it. No, throwing it, stamping on its shattered remains until its spine cracks under the weight of my frustration, then burning it. In a bonfire. With this one, too. Stupid Flaubert. Gah. Irony, why, why, why always the irony?! How do you write a paper on a word that is universally undefinable? Sooooo friggin' smug, isn't he? Look at me, I'm some French author that will historically remain the PAIN IN THE ASS of every English major in the twentieth century...how freaking smashing. What would YOU know about it, huh? Sitting there in your little....little....glass box thing...looking around. All YOU ever have to do is look around and EAT. And STARE at me. Shit, don't MOCK me. What do you know about anything anyway? Can YOU help me with French realism? :::whispered::: stupid fish...