trashy 19th Century Novels
I lose as many hours of my life stuck in traffic on Sturrow Drive as season six of Buffy loses to Dawn whining.
Today, on my way to class, I listened to half of Josh Ritter's The Animal Years before I was able to actually transgress the first of several problematic three-lane merging areas. Usually, the merging alone is enough to set everyone back at least fifteen minutes, but today, there was actually a legitimate traffic concern, namely, that a truck too tall to fit under the overpasses had tried to fit under one of the overpasses and its roof was shredded off like zest from a lemon.
I am eating Cheerios and enduring a lecture about a subject on which I have recently written forty pages of pretty much all I have to say on the topic. My professor has just accidentally called all 19th Century novels "trash" and I am sort of shocked that, in twelve days, I will no longer be a student and thus will no longer have a context in which people might accidentally call all 19th Century novels trash in lectures about collection preservation.
I am also (therefore) day dreaming about tall glasses of lemonade and picnics on new grass and stories where people figure out that the amiable but more often then not argumentative relationship they had with someone in their universe gets turned on its head and that amiable but argumentative person is now responsible for saving their life and nursing them back to health, and through this world-turned-upside-down scenario, the two become friends, but they're becoming more than friends before they realize, so that days or weeks later, when an old argument flares, instead of it ending with someone rolling their eyes and walking away, this time someone gets pushed up against a wall and gets warm, insistent hands shoved up under their shirt.
Today, on my way to class, I listened to half of Josh Ritter's The Animal Years before I was able to actually transgress the first of several problematic three-lane merging areas. Usually, the merging alone is enough to set everyone back at least fifteen minutes, but today, there was actually a legitimate traffic concern, namely, that a truck too tall to fit under the overpasses had tried to fit under one of the overpasses and its roof was shredded off like zest from a lemon.
I am eating Cheerios and enduring a lecture about a subject on which I have recently written forty pages of pretty much all I have to say on the topic. My professor has just accidentally called all 19th Century novels "trash" and I am sort of shocked that, in twelve days, I will no longer be a student and thus will no longer have a context in which people might accidentally call all 19th Century novels trash in lectures about collection preservation.
I am also (therefore) day dreaming about tall glasses of lemonade and picnics on new grass and stories where people figure out that the amiable but more often then not argumentative relationship they had with someone in their universe gets turned on its head and that amiable but argumentative person is now responsible for saving their life and nursing them back to health, and through this world-turned-upside-down scenario, the two become friends, but they're becoming more than friends before they realize, so that days or weeks later, when an old argument flares, instead of it ending with someone rolling their eyes and walking away, this time someone gets pushed up against a wall and gets warm, insistent hands shoved up under their shirt.