Birthings and birth things.
Let's start with the time. Please note: 1:44 am.
Once again, I'm at work printing. Deep into the morning. Coffee cold and worn off.
But it's as done as it's going to be. For now.
364 pages later, and you know what I've learned? A thesis is like a black hole. The closer you get to it, the more energy it sucks. The more energy you give, the bigger and suckier it gets.
So now it sucks, trust me.
Six chapters. 93 Figures. 20 Tables. Well over 100 sources. Not sure how many footnotes. Around 50.
A long labor, to be sure.
Other announcements: an old and dear friend just became a father. It's complicated, but he sounds blissful, and it's good to hear him happy.
It's strange to me -- and not subtle -- that one of the only things I've ever been really clear about is wanting to have kids. And having kids or not having kids has been one reason propelling me out of relationships. Yet many of the men I've dated now how children. Hmmm... Try not to take that one personally! It does and it doesn't have anything to do with me. Like most things.
It's also strange to be at the end of such a long process with nothing but paper to show for it. Lots of paper. Lots of paper that takes fucking FOREVER to print.
I never really thought I would finish. Something about perfectionism made easier when you don't actually finish anything you might be able to judge imperfect.
But poking and prodding and cajoling and supporting by multiple friends has gotten me here: the other side.
Is it myself I've labored to pull through?
A new future come to light?
What light through yonder window breaks? It comes from the east. It has stories.