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I've got a desk in my room now! And did not need the intervention of random brotherly help. He's still asleep, and I don't want to have to wake him up for something my honor demands I do myself anyways. I really just need to have a desk in my life apparently, and since this one was going begging I grabbed it for dibs. I'm also doing laundry at the same time. Which means I get points in life.

It's weird to be back in the same time zone as all the rest of my life actually is. Strange and wonderful, I suppose.

Yesterday's fiction disappoints me- I mean the day 8 submission, not the day 7. Day 8 was written while I was literally falling asleep after my brother took me out for ice cream to meet his new girlfriend, who is really extraordinarily cute.

I'm going to have Smadar over to my house for the fourth of July, which should be good fun. She sounded like she needed some time to goof off and be away from her work and constant drive to achieve. I will be glad to see her and hang out, though I was slightly looking for an excuse to get to Swelles.

Day 8: the hunt begins.

“Boxes, boxes, boxes, rawhide!” he hummed to himself as he shifted through the piled cardboard mountain. Somewhere, perhaps under the next stack, was his prize: a battered copy of Wheelock’s Latin Grammar and a slightly more battered copy of Auricula Meretricula- Earlobe, the Little Prostitute. There is only so much Latin one can take over a summer, and wisely knowing this, he had stowed both these worthy tombs away lest he destroy his own zest for the subject. (Or, according to his mother, he was too lazy to pick up a book that wasn’t assigned, and he hid them so that no one could blame him. There were elements of truth to both of them- Reading Wheelocks’s description of the present active imperative would make anyone feel commanded to throw the book across the room and leave it there for the vultures.)

He shifted another box and slowly eased it open. Despite his efforts, an earwig ran out across his fingers. While maintaining the greatest dignity, he stood, hopped back three or four steps and shook himself bodily like an Old English Sheepdog leaving a lake. He really did need a haircut.

Aside from the odd bit of local color, the boxes had turned up fruitless, though presenting an oddly compelling history of his own higher education. The early physics books that remained in an almost pristine condition because he had never been assed to do the readings quickly gave way to the subjects of literature and philosophy. He stopped to peruse the odd paper, and found himself chuckling over a von Trapp family reference: How Do You Solve a Problem like Mary Stuart?: an examination of guilt in Schiller’s drama. There were still professors out there who, secretly, unbeknownst to all but their most treasured teacher’s pets, graded entirely on how amusing the title of the paper was. For this reason alone he had chosen to give up on physics, where the paper title was often just a version of the first line with all the verbs taken out- making the process of understanding the vast and enthralling weirdness of the universe dull.


There was something to be said for literature classes: They made the examination of a finite part of the world, something that didn’t even really exist except on the page and in the mind, into an entire universe of poking, prodding, and academic argumentation that spanned centuries, languages and continents. It was pointless and ultimately useless in the grander scheme of things, but it was so much fun.

Except, of course, for the moments like these, when the accumulated pack-rattery of the devoted English student prevents him from even finding what he’s looking for. Perhaps Someone was saying he should stick to one language…?