"The whole spot is redolent of typography."

Well, we all know I'm not man enough to drink a bottle of Ipecac. [problematic! –ed.]

Lately, when I haven't been battling the bike snobs at The Hub, complaining about collages, or inventing animal dance games, I've been writing. Quite a lot, in fact. In the past three weeks, I've written six papers, none of them particularly good (and all of them relying on compound complex sentences to provide the illusion of sophistication). This isn't necessarily a complaint--particularly because it pales in comparison to things like the ProJo getting 17 facts about one's mugging wrong in a two-paragraph blurb--but more an observation that I have finally reached a limit. There is, it seems, a limit to the amount of text that I'm interested in consuming and producing per day.

This, in turn, has fed my mild anxieties about employment. Having realized that becoming an editorial assistant at a university press might not be the best thing for me after all, everything I see and read seems imbued with career ideas. Many of these have been fueled by my "Contraband Capitalism" class--migrant smuggler, FBI agent, DEA agent, political economist, money launderer, etc.--but I've also gotten even crazier ideas, like, "I know, maybe I'll go to grad school for English and study Anthony Trollope for a living. After all, we both love endless qualification, and we're both pleasantly boring."

So really, this whole post was an excuse for me to quote a line from The Warden.