Gee, I haven't been writing much lately, have I? Well, not so much as normal, anyway. I think I read somewhere (if it was you, say so, because my memory is horrible), someone saying that the more they do, the less they blog, and the less they do, the more they blog.

Those who warned of college sucking up your life were right, since it has. Some of it is very, very good (like getting to spend more time with Ali and Laris, who I love), some of it is blah (like my job), some of it sucks (like my World Drama class and my roommate). It's too late now for me to try to get out of World Drama, but part of me doesn't really want to. It's like eating spinach or something. It's gross, but it prevents cancer.

I'm just not really into writing about plays in terms of ologies and isms and etics. To me, what makes a great story is some sense of sympathy or feeling for the narrative, and more specifically, the characters in it. And while the plays we read ARE good on that level, I don't particularly like critiquing them on why they are or are not subverting the patriarchy or the class system or why they are or are not in accordance with the principles of Athenian humanism. Not that learning about ologies and isms isn't interesting, because it is, I just think it's really boring to have to sit and struggle through every line of a play looking for a meaning that I half-bet wasn't even intended in the first place.

Right now I just hope I can force enough interest to pass. But I think that will require me doing the unthinkable and actually calling him at home this weekend (he did encourage this, but calling a teacher at their house? This is a terrifying prospect to me, having spent my life in schools where teachers were like distant authority figures to be fled from at every opportunity, for the most part). I'm trying to work up the courage. Whenever I call people it's always in the middle of their dinner or something else important.