Dread. Positive dread. That book looms over me. Shadowing my thoughts. Why must I have started down the "good student" path? The first 16 chapters are supposed to be read by next tuesday. I have only read the opening paragraph. Pitiful worries, I know.
Cold Sassy Tree looks like a Huck Finn rip off. I still stand by my firm belief that america has no literature. Except maybe William Faulkner. Maybe...
The professor seems to like the idea of american dialects in the novels she assigns. The murder of an all ready mutilated language. Usually, I'm a grammar nazi. But I've been lacking lately in my pursuit of perfect English. Must be all my time on the internet. Or maybe the fact that I'm confroming to someone's idea of life.
The FCAT induced headache has faded a bit. Enough to let me stare blankly at a page. The dull pulse reminds me of how much I want to leave. Overbearing's grating laughter and the pressures of nothing in particular bringing forth the old mantra.
Just two and a half more years...
Two and a half more years.