December 1, 2002
Sylvia Plath
December. Already.
Where does the time go?
Am back at school and really not at all happy about it. This will be my last real week of classes, so never again after these seven days will I venture to Spanish 201, English 132, History 297, Art 187, or Political Science 159. I'm not mourning at all.
Next semester I'll have English 131: Life and Thought in English Literature, the beginnings to 1660; English 220: Literature and Film; English 248: Asian American Literature; Geology 111: The Dynamic Earth; and Spanish 202.
Is it really very obvious that I am an English major?
I am buying a car within the month, via a loan from either the Student Credit Union or the Argosy Credit Union. I will be self reliant and a traffic hazard. For me, these things come hand in hand.
I have a Political Science paper and a Spanish composition to write. I am avoiding both like the plague. Must I do work when I have only one week of classes? It seems so silly.
Last night Mike and I started getting sleepy entirely too early without Star Wars Episode 2: Attack of the Clones to occupy us. I wanted to hold him or kiss him or talk his ear off, but instead I let him go home. Not without following him out the door, of course, and whispering through the flurries that I loved him. He heard me, and responded likewise.
I hope he calls tonight so I can know that he didn't fall asleep on the trip back and get into an accident. I informed him that if he killed himself I'd be really pissed off.
He said he would not haunt me, but might visit occasionally.
astera at 7:05 p.m.