So, here I am again. Writing, late at night, after having taken a few months off. Luckily, I have not been doing nothing. I have been attending to my school work.
This school work entails reading excerpts from Derrida, Lacan, Saussure, Oates, Ozick and so many more from there. I have written at least 1000 words each week - I have been left wanting for a normal book for once. Every time I think I have some free time, I realize there is something I have forgotten, or need to better, or clean, or eat, maybe sleep, work. The end of the term is only two weeks away - I cannot wait to finish Everything is Illuminated. I have had my fill of literary theory.
Why has my love of books betrayed me and subjected me to this torture of an English degree? Damn you theory.
