I'm stressing over the boat project - three weeks left. 

Reading my Romans notes. Yeah right.

Reading Star Trek reboot fic. 

Writing in my journal for the first time in over six and a half months. Not the longest dry spell. It works better than typing things out. Puts things in perspective. But indeed, not much changes. I've reached the same conclusion a dozen times. Why am I still reaching this (correct) conclusion? Why? There's a fine line between checking one's work and paranoia.

I'm tired, man. I'm tired. I should have slept hours ago. Should have started next week's DE assignment.

Volume 2 of the journal has 45 entries. If you message me and I'm in an indulgent mood, well, let's just random number gen the shit out of it and you will either get an entry or no entry. 

Unreliable narrator (or, tvtropes) driven by a need to obtain answers.

The more I dissect this fetal pig, the more fucked up the insides look, until it's an incomprehensible bloody mess of organs and tissues, no more than a caricature of a pig. Possible explanations for this are that the experimenter has learned nothing about dissection, or that the pig being a particularly difficult specimen and the experimenter is simply too invested in the dissection to ask for a new pig or assistance in dissecting the pig, or that the experimenter is simply a person who enjoys finding excuses to tear the pig apart. 

When I dissected a fetal pig in grade 11, all three things were a factor. Wobbly hands, being too afraid to admit I couldn't find the gallbladder, and then I tore the carcass apart by the legs after everything had been marked. It would have been a total failure and a waste of a fetal pig if the rest of the lab group had not been there. 

This is my fetal pig. There are many like it, but this one is mine.

... I think, at this point in the metaphor, the only acceptable answer is to bring it back to life with a jolt of lightning. 

I mean the metaphor, of course. The pig's organs have practically liquefied already.