I should have fucking been a Fundies major.
What a legitimate pursuit that would have been (plus automatic cover letter material, obvi., a la Matt's Law letters + Cinema etc conundrum). But let's discuss: a spring quarter could be had on Shakespeare, Joyce, Virgil, Machiavelli, Wharton, Dante, Melville, or Mann. That I only discovered my predilection for lowbrow intellectual elitism (this is not an oxymoron) halfway through my collegiate career is one of the more pathetic and regrettable crimes of my academic existence.
Or I could have majored in history on next quarter alone.
I'm going to miss academia in so many ways next quarter. I better find a job in a bookstore so fast. This week, three different floors, air mattresses, and couches in two different cities have been offered to me for some indefinite amount of time in the future. I think my friends might be pretty real. I think people from pretty disparate parts of my life might love me, maybe even for some of the same reasons.
My life seems more important when I try to correspond about it to people far away from but invested in it.
Sometimes, I'm even able to love most of the flakes. Not all of them, but that will happen with a bit of time, no doubt. I have breakfast parties promised, fests of movies about the California homeland, a cinematic symposium with gnocci on the agenda, an important dinner. My napping chair at Doc is imperfect only for the dude who has to get up to smoke every forty minutes, but this is okay, too, because he keeps me from the severity of sleep that might involve snoring. I was even friendly to the retired regular who always wants to be my friend, if often somewhat rudely. The flaws of the most regrettable fellow who thinks he should be my friend were recently agreed upon by a legitimate sort. Nostalgia was discovered on the stoops and in the halls of Bartlett. I dashed around in a quad without of a coat in search of a friend who didn't materialize. I realized I was too cool for certain kids who like tents, and I maintained the degree of etiquette necessary to refrain from crashing their parties even when doing so would be so appealing. There is hope for intellectual community, and I performed some academic penance before that. I spent a morning reading Wister, Twain, Henry, and Hemingway. It's gonna be all right.
Or I could have majored in history on next quarter alone.
I'm going to miss academia in so many ways next quarter. I better find a job in a bookstore so fast. This week, three different floors, air mattresses, and couches in two different cities have been offered to me for some indefinite amount of time in the future. I think my friends might be pretty real. I think people from pretty disparate parts of my life might love me, maybe even for some of the same reasons.
My life seems more important when I try to correspond about it to people far away from but invested in it.
Sometimes, I'm even able to love most of the flakes. Not all of them, but that will happen with a bit of time, no doubt. I have breakfast parties promised, fests of movies about the California homeland, a cinematic symposium with gnocci on the agenda, an important dinner. My napping chair at Doc is imperfect only for the dude who has to get up to smoke every forty minutes, but this is okay, too, because he keeps me from the severity of sleep that might involve snoring. I was even friendly to the retired regular who always wants to be my friend, if often somewhat rudely. The flaws of the most regrettable fellow who thinks he should be my friend were recently agreed upon by a legitimate sort. Nostalgia was discovered on the stoops and in the halls of Bartlett. I dashed around in a quad without of a coat in search of a friend who didn't materialize. I realized I was too cool for certain kids who like tents, and I maintained the degree of etiquette necessary to refrain from crashing their parties even when doing so would be so appealing. There is hope for intellectual community, and I performed some academic penance before that. I spent a morning reading Wister, Twain, Henry, and Hemingway. It's gonna be all right.