Procrastination lifestyle

I have one paper left to write (and then my entire undergraduate career will be over, oh god we're not thinking about that part yet). One paper. Not an excessively long paper, not a particularly difficult topic.

And yet I am apparently incapable of writing it. Instead I've spent all evening trolling p2p programs to download music, because obviously my life will not be complete until I manage to find a copy of Matthew Good's 'Empty Road'. And in between sessions of that, I've been studying the World Cup site to pick a favorite team, even though I have never followed it before and, in fact, do not even know how to play soccer.

Also, Yahoo's mahjong solitaire is being very tempting. And I seem to have no self-control at all.

Obviously I won't be sleeping tonight!

Uh... drama spam?

Medea, Euripides. Translation by Eleanor Wilner and Ines Azar. Guess what I'm writing a paper on?

Medea: But, wait. Why save a life that no one will protect? Suppose that
I succeed- what city will receive me? What stranger will reach out
a hand? What land will offer sanctuary? What house awaits me?
There is none. So I will abide a little while, and if some stronghold
appears to shelter me, then the murder shall be done by stealth.
But if the gates of hope are closed to me, then I shall take
the sword and, daring all, hack my way to revenge, and die
for it. By Her whom I worship first and last, the goddess Hecate,
who lives in the inmost chamber of my house, and of my bowels,
none of them shall cause me pain and live to smile at it. Bitter
shall I make this vile marriage, and bitter Creon who thought
to build his power on the ruins of mine. Take heart, Medea,
use all your arts, inquire of all you know, and all you are-
spare nothing. For what they did to you- those sons
of doubling-dealing, false-speaking Sisyphus- foul murder
is a fair return. Have the courage of your kind: the seed
of gods spawned you- the offspring of a noble father, and Helios,
the sun himself, your grandsire. Fire is your element,
you know what you must do. Well, we are women, aren't we,
our best designs have made us architects of harm, for deeds
of glory are denied us- so we must do our worst.

Chorus: Backward flow the rivers,
uphill to their source,
justice and the order
of the universe
reversed; the god-sworn
oaths that held men
to their word are torn
like knotted rope.
Now will the feet
of sense tread air, and
thought stand on its head.
Now will men admire
our women's ways, and give
us sway; no more will they
insult and slander us; honor
shall be our daily bread.

No more will the poets of old
sing of our fickleness. If Apollo,
lord of song, had given women
the gift to make the lyre sing
with glorious power, why then
we would have set the ears
of men on fire with our reply.
No matter, in the length of days,
for men as well as us, time
will have its say: no one is safe.