Blah blah blah, I'm going to visit two prospective colleges next week.
My feet hurt from walking dumb precincts. I have blisters.
Have decided (at least for this week) not to get an English degree. I don't like talking about themes or listening to people jaw about what they think the author meant. As brilliant friend Emily says (in a much more comprehensible way), if it's taken years and years of scholarship for an author's meaning to be figured out, that author didn't do a very good job communicating his idea, did he?
How boring is all this?
Pretty darn.
I might as well tell you what all I've eaten today. Embrace the tuna sandwich.
Ah, well.
Goodbye.
P.S. Might as well tell you all the boring happenings of my life, dear void - I also found (oh, joy, joy!) an un-read Agatha Christie in my stack the other day. The Murder at Hazelmoor or something. Quite good. Though, Emily and I are beginning to worry about our deep interest in crime. We are afraid that, when we eventually move to England (we made a pact, so it will happen) we will expect to be invited to someone's weekend party in the country and - because murders happen all the time at these events - solve a house murder. That's just a customary weekend activity there, in our minds. It's just slightly worrying.
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