I should absolutely, ABSOLUTELY not be here right now, but that's when I want it the most. I can't help it - maybe that's why I couldn't write all summer, because the keys were so clearly there and my time was so wide open to caress them. Anyway, my psyche is all to complex for the few seconds I can afford between a folder of poetry I need to workshop before one o'clock and the other half-page response I owe to Jacobs's Incidents in the Life of a Slave Girl. It's the third book for my 19th century lit class and I've all but made up my mind that I'm not a fan. I wasn't a fan of calculus either, but I had to stomach the course to get my diploma. Such is life, I guess.
Speaking of which, [life that is] it continues to move forward. I've inquired about several apartments in the new -ville and I'm looking forward to the end of my other lease. The hour commute to school is wretched with the fuel whores being hungry for more and more and more. And my puppy has all but forgotten that she has a human mommy. I stop in between demands and she has torn the cushions from my antique sofa. I situate them again in their precise order and before I have left [again], she has made her rebellion noticed. With them spread across the living room floor, she perches herself proudly on the now barren lining. She's ready to move, too. The distance is not good for her nerves.
I'd love to scrawl more, but I really have to finish these assignments. More later. More later.