The hugeness of my textbooks increases exponentially the farther along I am in school, I think. So does my coffee intake. Of course, no one is surprised. But it’s a little unsettling to be spending so much time with people in a book who are, for one, dead, and also a whole lot more dry and confusing than, say, the show Phineas and Ferb, which I would probably watch excitedly until my eyes bled. Sometimes I struggle to react academically to Edgar Allan Poe, for instance, who was addicted to opium and married his 13-year old cousin wrote “The Raven” a poem about a dead woman and a talking animal.

Here’s a few more life anecdotes for the curious, if any. It’s entirely true that I’m really bad about keeping up with everyone I care about and have lost touch with over time. It’s been an amazing struggle lately to get everything done that seems to be important, and then I’m left with a huge gap because I miss everybody. So if you happen to be one of those people, I’m sorry, and hopefully I will catch up reasonably soon. Or, you could hire somebody locally to slap me around a little. (In 18th century colonial households, female independence beats YOU!) Make me a sandwich?

Hang in there, few last subscribers to this poor blog. I’ll keep your interest by telling you a small story that happened to me last week. It kind of sums up what’s going on with me: It was cloudy outside, then sunny, a mixture of “Why the heck did I bring this coat” and “Man, life would be easier if you didn’t have to wear pants.” Instructors were engaging, then talked past me, because I’m again distracted by whatever. Looking out the window in my classroom, past the tall buildings and tops of trees shedding leaves before they even change color, I think about who has contributed to me ending up where I am right now, or who hasn’t, and more importantly, how I wouldn’t change a thing about what’s happened then, because in some divine direction, it has taken me here, to this point.

(Feel free to not analyze that. According to Poe, while it was melancholy, it did not have 100 lines, and therefore, reader, you must have definitely become distracted [Poe, "Philosophy of Composition"].)

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