Wait, let me explain. (No, there is too much, let me sum up.) Food poisoning. Bedridden. Trying to write. All day.
Why this sudden run of sickness? Ha ha, pardon the pun. Ah god, I'm achy.
I spent most of my glorious paid President's Day off--how's that for being a lucky bastard?--curled up in a fetal position. I think it was an errant carne asada burrito from an otherwise respectable restaurant in the neighborhood. When I could sit up, I worked on my lit crit piece and hung out with the other MFA hopefuls in a private group that's been set up on a popular social networking site.
I had hoped to have a rough draft done by COB, but that is not to be. Instead, I managed to finish a draft of the intro and first section, blurbs on the second two sections, and nothing on the conclusion. I have notes, quotes, and works have been cited. Can I say I am over a third done? I hope so. Now if you'll excuse me, I need to curl back up.
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