I know, I'm stupid.

This afternoon I had a series of crises: existential, epistemological, legitimation(al), and, while walking home, looked at the sunset and came to the terrible realisation that, six months into my PhD, I cannot write with the theoretical sophistication of your Couze Venn or your Toby Miller, or with the sublime inspiration and dynamic, far-reaching flow of your Derrida or Foucault.

Sometimes I feel like my entire (educational) life is a series of failures to reach standards I am too terrified to acknowledge I have the ambition to set myself. I need to grow some lady balls!

I think I'm gonna go watch Dexter for a bit.