I've written two rather self-pitying posts and chosen not to publish them. You are welcome. But I have now told you about them, so you can judge me for them without having to endure reading them. Again, I think about you, dear readers.

It's about midway through the third week of the semester, the time when everything still seems like smooth sailing. (Hint: it's not - weeks four and five allow you to realize just how innocent you were way back in week three.) Everything's going well. Students are alive. Teachers are alive and well. One of them keeps making me watch movies for class - it's odd, but it's an American Lit class, so I understand that there aren't enough good books to read. (Note: that was a deliberately inflammatory remark.) Enjoyed a polar vortex day off of school (gave me time to read Utopia). Had a birthday.

MA Exam is six weeks away. There is some level of panic. I'm reading random things as quickly as possible while trying to remember what I've read. Trying not to beat myself up too much about misidentifying a Petrarchan sonnet in the last practice question while still accepting enough responsibility to be sure to remember the correct rhyme scheme in the future.

In short, I'm busy. I read an article today about why not to use the word 'busy'. As you can see, I'm choosing to ignore that pellet of wisdom. Mostly because I think it's an accurate choice of word for describing my chosen situation.

Now I've nattered on for paragraphs without saying anything of substance. Sorry. Feel free to pretend this post doesn't exist. I mostly just wanted to say hello and that I haven't forgotten you all.