#10 - Getting out of class early.

Are there any words more beautiful on a Tuesday afternoon (or any afternoon, for that matter) than "class is going to end early today"? And is there any day more beautiful than a day in which those words are uttered not once, not twice, but THREE times in three separate classes? Of course not. Even in classes that I love (and yes, I do love some of my classes) the chance to leave early is welcome. It makes the day instantly better.

That said, short classes do not necessarily equal less homework. So adios!

#9 - NAPS.

I remember hating naps growing up. My parents told me to nap ALL THE TIME, and I never did. Growing up, I'd usually go to my room and pretend to nap, while really reading or playing with Barbies. I was a really cool kid back in the day.

These days, there's not much more I love than taking a nap. I nap more often than just about anyone I know, except for maybe my roommate. My bed is, I believe, specially designed for nap-taking. It's big, and soft, but not too soft, except right when you lay down, when it just collapses under you and takes you in it's arms and begs you to go to sleep. And when you wake up from a nap, you get a hint of what my friends and I call "nap-sweat" - the thin sheen of sweat on your neck and forehead that reminds you of falling asleep in the car as a kid. Or is that just us?

All of this talk about naps is making me sleepy. Guess what time it is?

Naptime.

#8 - Rereading the classics

There's a joke in the English department about Mary Shelley's most famous novel: How many professors does it take to teach you Frankenstein? The answer: All of them, apparently. Since I began college three years ago, I've been assigned the novel no less than four times; at one point, I was reading it for two classes at the same time. So when the professor of my Fantasy Literature class assigned it yet again, I assumed that I could skip the reading, and use that time to catch up on all my other homework. When I got to class this morning, I quickly flipped through the pages were supposed to have read, hoping to jog my memory before the discussion began. But skimming proved easier said than done, not because I had forgotten the details of the novel, but because I'd forgotten how damn good it is.

That's the great thing about great books. Each time you read a great novel, you pick up on things you didn't catch on your first reading. For example, while I was flipping through Frankenstein this morning, I caught myself laughing out loud at the absolute egotism Walton shows in the first few pages. I had never recognized the humor in that opening section; it adds a touch of irony when contrasted with Victor Frankenstein's own God complex.

Anyways, I got to thinking about all the other books I need to reread - Blood Meridian and The Scarlet Letter, of all things, came to mind. Then I remembered that I have no time to read on my own. But it was a nice thought, while it lasted.

#7 - The NYT Obituaries Section

I've always been morbidly fascinated with obituaries. My roommate and I used to have the New York Times delivered to our apartment, and barring some massive tragedy on the front page, the first section I'd read every morning was the obituaries. We've now realized that we're poor college students, who truly can't afford to have it delivered ($15 a week! Those elitist bastards), and so I've started reading the obituaries online. The online edition of the Times has more obituaries than are printed, so I've got even more dead people to read about, which is great.

The thing is, it isn't exactly the deaths that fascinate me. What I'm fascinated with is the lives - more specifically, how the obituary writers condense those lives into 5 word phrases or epigrams. Here's an example from today's paper: "Jefferson Thomas, Who Helped Integrate Little Rock School, Dies at 67". Another example, from a few days back: "Corneille, Dutch Artist With A Lyrical Modernism, Dies at 88". I don't know enough about either of these men to know if these are sufficient descriptions, but I'm totally captivated by how succinct they are.

Some historical examples:

• "Truman Capote, Stylish Novelist, Dies at 59"
• "Richard Burton, Rakish Star, Dies at 58"
• "Florence Nightingale, Famous Nurse," Dies at 90"

What will your obituary say? They're short, so unfortunately, "Courtney Barajas, Pulitzer Prize Winner and Queen of Everying, Dies at X" probably won't be the best choice. But hopefully it'll be something along those lines. 

#7 - Being an English major

When people ask me what I'm an English major for, I tend to answer in one of two ways. If I'm in a good mood, I'll say something like, "It seemed like a good idea at the time." If I'm in a bad mood, my response will be more along the lines of, "Because someone needs to teach morons like you not to end sentences with f@*king prepositions." (I mean, really.)

Regardless of how I answer, I'm usually thinking the same thing: I'm just not good at anything else. For years this has been my rationale: I'm an English major because nothing else comes as easily. I've never been successful in Science classes, I don't really enjoy History or Psych, and I really truly cannot add numbers higher than 10. Reading and writing, on the other hand, have always been as natural to me as breathing. Why waste energy on the study of anything difficult?

The problem is this: studying English isn't easy anymore. The classes I'm taking this semester are, as a rule, ridiculously difficult. The sheer amount of reading I'm assigned each week is criminal. It's as if each professor thinks that their class is the only one I'm taking, and assigning literally hundreds of pages of reading a week is perfectly acceptable, because it's not like we have anything better to do, right? And the readings themselves have become more difficult. Gone are the days of reading a couple of poems a night; my readings so far this semester have been unbelievably dense - thick packets of literary theory, philosophy, or pure didactic criticism. My lit classes are harder than they used to be - and, most of the time, not as much fun. I go to class every Tuesday and Thursday expecting to bored out of my mind.

And then my professor starts reciting Chaucer, or Wordsworth, or Didion, and I remember why I love English lit. He passes out a poem I haven't read since high school, or a short story by an author I'd all but forgotten, and I feel the swelling in my chest, and I remember why I'm here. I'm not an English major because it's easy, or because there's nothing else I'm good at. I'm an English major because there's nothing else I love more in the world than reading, or talking about what I've read. Nothing excites me as much as 15th century English lit, except for maybe 18th century English lit, or maybe 19th century American. There's no man alive I love quite as much as the long-deceased Samuel Taylor Coleridge, no one who makes me laugh as hard as Chaucer.

To be sure, nothing frustrates me as much as reading these men, or any number of other writers. Like everything good in life, spending time with all these texts is difficult, and like everything difficult, the struggle is worth it. This semester is going to be more difficult than the past two years of college combined, and I really couldn't be more excited.

#6 - Rearranging my room.

This post goes out 100% to my father, who sent me both an email AND a facebook message telling me to update. He can now share my mother's frustration in only being mentioned in a negative (?) sense on this blog. For the record, my dad is A) the smartest person I know and B) the hardest working. So his frustration in my total lack of posting is understandable

ANYWAYS, I spent about three hours today rearranging the furniture in my room. Last year, I lived in a really old, tiny apartment that exactly two fantastic features. The first was an amazing brick patio, which was almost as big as the apartment itself. The second was the fact that it had solid concrete floors, which made rearranging the apartment (something I tend to do when stressed and/or avoiding real work) a piece of cake. I now live with a roommate in a much bigger, much nicer apartment with carpeted floors, and rearranging furniture was a bit of a hassle today.

The whole project began when I decided to do laundry, a Herculean effort in and of itself. For the past few weeks, the stress of studying for the GRE and beginning my senior year of college has left me lacking in the organization department. Pretty much every item of clothing I own was on the floor at the bottom of my closet, and I had just about run out of things to wear. In the act of doing laundry, I realized that my closet was all but designed for disorganization. I don't have enough shelves or hangers or drawers or anything of that nature. So I decided to tear down a set of cabinets I had and put it in my closet. That, in turn, left a big empty space on one of my walls, which just wouldn't do.

To describe the rest of my rearranging would be pointless, since the people who read this blog (HI MOM AND DAD) haven't spent enough time in my room to appreciate the improvements. Actually, I don't think anyone but my roommate and I have. The point is this: rearranging my room is an inexplicably comforting process. One of the things that's scariest about being an adult is the fact that there are still so many things over which I have absolutely no control. I guess I thought that growing up meant no one could tell you what to do, or when or how to do it. That's not the case. I've still got a hundred people telling me to do a thousand different things, and I don't think that's going to change anytime soon.

And yet, no one can tell me that my bed HAS to be up against the western wall, or that it doesn't look good centered underneath the south window (although, to be fair, that's because it does look empirically awesome there). No one can tell me that I HAVE to put my TV on my dresser, or that a kitchen table is an unacceptable substitute for a desk. I don't have control over much, but at least I have control over the place where I sleep. Now if only I could figure out where to put my guitar...

PROGRAMMING NOTE: Wow, senior year is difficult. I'm going to get back on track. I promise!