It is currently quarter to 7 in the morning. Am still at varsity waiting for the main cafe to open at 7.30 so that I can go and buy a hot, meaty breakfast for $5 and read the paper. mmm protieny goodness.
 
I have finished my draft chapter which I've been working on for far to blimmin long. And, I gotta say, that feels pretty damn good. Should have been done months ago, but in the absence of anything that resembles my old work ethic I'm just going to lean back in a blurry-eyed daze and enjoy my reality for a minute or two.
 
I am a little concerned as to what has happened to my work ethic. Once upon a time I could work for hours upon hours without really caring - churning through the work at a great rate of knots. Caffeine pills helped, as they are wont to do - hallucinating small children with pigs heads chasing me home was not so fun. Well, to be fair to myself, I still can churn through the work when I feel the urge and the desire. Problem: Dave lost his mojo.
 
It's not under my desk or anywhere where I can tangibly find and touch  it. I don't think I lent it to Tim or Ben. Regardless - I'm not planning to touch them any time soon.
 
I think the main problem is that to a very real and large extent work has come to define who I am and what I do. I study and therefore I angst. I think and therefore I wish I didn't. It cracks me up when I run into people who haven't seen me for ages - and the first thing they ask - because they are interested and because they do care - is how the thesis is going. And it's always going.
 
The thesis doesn't exactly put out a lot. Fortunately I now have xbox love and it will put out when I tell it to.
 
Am starting to miss playing golf quite a bit. Ironic, given that I had to stop playing when I was 16 and it's only now that the urge to chase a little white ball all over the friggen golf course has returned (save for a brief, memorable and furnituresquelly rewarding summer of 2000). Getting outside and seeing the sun/smog while not being groped by eight hairy and ugly blokes could be quite a good idea. The problem with golf is that it does cost money. I've got all the gear etc, but by the time you pay for fuel, balls etc....
 
Fortunately, in the blurry-reality induced state, I've come up with a genius of a plan to get my money, save the day and win the girl.
Step 1) Infiltrate Al Quaeda.
Step2) Don't get caught.
Step 3) Find important and incriminating documents and the whereabouts of Osama.
Step 4) Hijack Osama and fly him to a remote location with access to video phone, warm shower and a change of clothes.
Step 5) Offer both Osama and incriminating documents to the highest bidder. All bids are to be in the form of monetary goods, although guarantees of spiritual (and physical) bliss in the afterlife will be taken into account. 'We won't kill you' will not be a valid option.
Step 6) Once the money and spiritual bliss have been deposited in the appropriate accounts and channeled through various winebox companies, I leave the island by jetski - conveniently located beside the deserted island and placid ocean.
Step 7) Find a really good plastic surgeon. Carve face into menacing smile so no-one will recognize me.
Step 8) Dye my hair green and wear bright red lipstick and a purple suit.
Step 9) Take 'care' of Michael Keaton.
Step 10) Take 'care' of Kirsten Dunst.