I bought my books for my fall classes today, so now I’m a little nervous. For half of my swan song at State I’ll be taking “The Structure of Language,” a course the English department chairman actually warned me away from. “It’s a syntax course,” he said doubtfully. What, do I have a big neon sign on me saying SYNTAX IS MY KRYPTONITE, IF YOU SEE ME WITH SYNTAX PLEASE ALERT THE MOMS? It’s true that the last time I took it it caused me to drop out of college and is basically the reason I still have not graduated at 25, but THERE WERE MITIGATING CIRCUMSTANCES, PEOPLE. I was nineteen. That is a mitigating circumstance if ever I saw one.
I faced the dragon Errours once and only barely escaped with my life. Now I must face the dragon Sin(tax) and probably I will have to die and be reborn to get through it. So if you don’t see me much in the fall, it will be because I am dead.
As if facing my deadliest rival weren’t enough, I’m also taking the pompously-titled “Literature and Psychology.” There’s a whole lotta Freud on this menu. I’ve never read Freud and never wanted to, contenting myself with making fun of his ideas as best I misunderstand them, so I’m not looking forward to getting a big old ladlefull shoved down my throat. Also, I see I will be forced to read Orlando again, which I think will finish me off even if I survive everything else.
What I am saying is: poop.