For the record, I finally have my desk set up the way I had it when I was still in school. It has languished for over a year in the employ of Danielle’s mother, during which time I was hopelessly deskless for lack of space. You see, it is a rather substantial piece of furniture, though not so much in a sense of austerity so much as a sense of its raging appetite for physical space. Nestled onto its second tier is my halogen desk lamp, or as science would identify it, my fully functional replica Martian heat-ray. The waste energy emitted from the end of its tripodal armature was such that I had to buy a fancy glowing keyboard to survive late night Warcraft raids during the summer months. With the shortening of days and encroaching frost, however, such tangential use of electricity metamorphizes from a design flaw into a bonus feature.
The nostalgia I feel might be borne of the warmth or the surface area that now sits between my computer monitor and I or even the monitor itself, as it too was retired to support duty for the Age of Apartment, but it goes without doubt that it is solidified with the task to which I am currently set in this environment. The writing of this post is merely an exercise in procrastinating the eight score some-odd pages of reading I have to do for my history class by Saturday, which in and of itself is not an unfamiliar happenstance.
[That was actually written weeks ago. I actually got back to work after writing that. Ed.]
Where was I? Oh yes. I should have been a history major. I have more enthusiasm for the material in this course than any of the full lecture courses I took during my time as a full time student. It’s a strange sensation to actually look forward to spending a good three hours with a textbook. In fact, now that the course is over I intend to read the bits we skipped in class.
Perhaps it’s simply the medievalness of the material. I have been known to have a passing interest in the period.
Ja.