And then there were 10

Ten pages, that is. Left to write, so that the script is a nice, round 60 pages long. Which is, because of my amateurish indentations and such, is actually probably more like 90 minutes of television. Which, as it turns out, is just fine, because I've been stressing about turning in only a pilot and not a pilot AND another episode, and a special 90 minute pilot kind of bridges the gap, right? Right?

I'm finding that I am unable to sit in the carrels and long desks and seminar rooms that have been my usual places to write papers and study during my sentence here -- it's just too much seriousness and stress -- and so I've been fluttering around the university. Right now, as for the past two mornings, I am somewhat uncomfortably ensconced in a huge beanbag. Yes, incredible as it seems, there is a hallway at Crimson, connecting two buildings, that sports 14 oversized vinyl beanbags. I don't know if it's used much during the school year, but it's been very quiet here the past two days, and it's just relaxed enough to allow the right side of my brain to sigh softly and arise without too much complaint from the slumber to which it has become accustomed in law school.

The other place I have been writing is in the undergrad libraries. Despite being stuffed with studious undergrads, they are so much less stressful than the law school library. I enter the college libraries and see the kids and think, "Aw. Cute little undergrads." And sometimes, upon seeing a not-so-little but very cute undergrad, I think, "Mm hm! Hot little undergrads!" (Apparently, I have become a lech in my 30s. I'm okay with it.)

Sigh. Everyone is moving out of my dorm, and the campus is slowly getting emptier and emptier. The birds are chirping and figuring out how to get shiny things into their nests, and the trees are saying damn, it's finally time to bust out the leaves, and it's the exact wrong time for any tests to be taken and any papers to be written, is what.

It's also the exact wrong time to be mucking around in state-of-relationship land, especially when the talks never reach any kind of satisfactory conclusion. Tonight I've arranged to see an increasingly less cute non-undergrad, to talk about this thing we are doing. My question is, is the thing we are doing dating, or is it breaking up? If he says he doesn't want a fling, but he's also got commitment issues, then what in tarnation IS he doing? And, more importantly, what is it that I want? A happy, non-pressured thing with a reasonably well-adjusted man who isn't afraid to have sex -- that would be good.

Bluagh. Spring is the season of my discontent.