the server is back up but email is still down.
both job interviews went well. one I don’t want even a little bit, after the interview. i’m supposed to call them but won’t. the other I would like, but i’d have to give up uni entirely. they were very friendly, lovelie, she’s married to my year 12 art teacher, who apparently fondly remembered me when she told him my name. except he misremembered me as being on the school magazine board. I wasn’t.
I don’t want to give up Uni. I want the job. they said they’d call in a few daze. I almost hope I don’t get it so I don’t have to decide and mumm can tell me “it was meant to be,” rather than me just making the wrong choice LIKE I ALWAYS DO. but I am 75% sure if I get it I will take it, and give up Uni.
I washed my hair over the sink. everyone is secretly evil.
someone sent me hamlet. it was in my po box from no one, but the postmark was from nearby. i’ve no idea who it was.
To be, or not to be: that is the question:
Whether ’tis nobler in the mind to suffer
The slings and arrows of outrageous fortune,
Or to take arms against a sea of troubles,
And by opposing end them? To die: to sleep;
No more; and by a sleep to say we end
The heart-ache and the thousand natural shocks
That flesh is heir to, ’tis a consummation
Devoutly to be wish’d. To die, to sleep;
To sleep: perchance to dream: ay, there’s the rub;
For in that sleep of death what dreams may come
When we have shuffled off this mortal coil,
Must give us pause: there’s the respect
That makes calamity of so long life;
For who would bear the whips and scorns of time,
The oppressor’s wrong, the proud man’s contumely,
The pangs of despised love, the law’s delay,
The insolence of office and the spurns
That patient merit of the unworthy takes,
When he himself might his quietus make
With a bare bodkin? who would fardels bear,
To grunt and sweat under a weary life,
But that the dread of something after death,
The undiscover’d country from whose bourn
No traveller returns, puzzles the will
And makes us rather bear those ills we have
Than fly to others that we know not of?
Thus conscience does make cowards of us all;
And thus the native hue of resolution
Is sicklied o’er with the pale cast of thought,
And enterprises of great pith and moment
With this regard their currents turn awry,
And lose the name of action.
I haven’t read it yet.