We ain't even been to the ocean
So.
So it would appear that I'm going to remain in my Race Policy class and take it pass/fail. This seems the best of several unsavory options. The most unfortunate consequence will be my poor participation in what should be a two-person effort to describe a book's purpose both orally and in writing. Updates might be forthcoming.
I will depart for Newark in 41 hours. Once I arrive I will depart for Manchester. At that point I hope to be picked up by Danielle. I will then spend much of my six days in the Shire reading.
Late in high school or early in college I started viewing myself metaphorically as some sort of large aircraft--usually a World War II bomber--trying to fly home. In the beginning of a semester everything would appear all right and everything would be running with a fine hum. But then there would be a hiccup, and the thin veneer of quality would be largely stripped away, baring damage from untold missions past. Faulty wiring, poor insulation, makeshift workarounds everywhere, but I could still fly.
No machine runs perfectly, however, and the longer I flew the less sound I became. Pieces of me would fall away repeatedly in an exaggerated parallel to how I seemed to be faring. Never enough to make me crash, and the pieces would often magically reappear a day later to fall away again in an identical fashion. My crew was desperately trying to stabilize me. We'd be almost home.
Once the majority of my work for the semester would complete I would let the bomber metaphor rest. I would just stop thinking about landing, and be relieved that everything was almost over; I would never even think to see myself flying home. It just ends. There was no success, but simply a lack of failure. My crew would repair me while I rested, but there's only so much they can do when they're still stuck in the air.
I could use a real vacation in the Shire. But perhaps we can patch a few holes, reconnect some wires, make sure the second engine doesn't fall off again.
So it would appear that I'm going to remain in my Race Policy class and take it pass/fail. This seems the best of several unsavory options. The most unfortunate consequence will be my poor participation in what should be a two-person effort to describe a book's purpose both orally and in writing. Updates might be forthcoming.
I will depart for Newark in 41 hours. Once I arrive I will depart for Manchester. At that point I hope to be picked up by Danielle. I will then spend much of my six days in the Shire reading.
Late in high school or early in college I started viewing myself metaphorically as some sort of large aircraft--usually a World War II bomber--trying to fly home. In the beginning of a semester everything would appear all right and everything would be running with a fine hum. But then there would be a hiccup, and the thin veneer of quality would be largely stripped away, baring damage from untold missions past. Faulty wiring, poor insulation, makeshift workarounds everywhere, but I could still fly.
No machine runs perfectly, however, and the longer I flew the less sound I became. Pieces of me would fall away repeatedly in an exaggerated parallel to how I seemed to be faring. Never enough to make me crash, and the pieces would often magically reappear a day later to fall away again in an identical fashion. My crew was desperately trying to stabilize me. We'd be almost home.
Once the majority of my work for the semester would complete I would let the bomber metaphor rest. I would just stop thinking about landing, and be relieved that everything was almost over; I would never even think to see myself flying home. It just ends. There was no success, but simply a lack of failure. My crew would repair me while I rested, but there's only so much they can do when they're still stuck in the air.
I could use a real vacation in the Shire. But perhaps we can patch a few holes, reconnect some wires, make sure the second engine doesn't fall off again.
