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?
I might as well tell you what all I've eaten today. Embrace the tuna sandwich.
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.