"So, anyway, they found this huge squid at the bottom of the ocean and it was massive. I guess this means that whales are no longer the biggest mammals.”
“What?”
“Well, if this thing is several feet larger, sorry whales!”
“Uh, aren’t squids mollusks or something? Cephalopods. Yeah, cephalobods. Or, wait, cephalopods are mollusks . . .”
“You’re always trying to look so smart, Adrienne. I’m pretty sure squids are mammals.”
“Oh, yeah, right. The tiny squid babies attach to the squid mamas and suckle from squid teats. Mmmm, oceanic, pressurized milk.”
“Suckle? Shut up! You always try to win these arguments by making words up.”
“Yeah. You’re right. Sorry.”
Yes, I realize I haven’t updated in a month.
I kept thinking about updating. Because it’s not like I haven’t spewed inconsequential twaddle into the ether before, just for the sake of posting. I felt kind of guilty because of the loyal 100 people who came here week after week, though. Seriously, who are you people? And you did realize I had written nothing new, right?
It is for these people (and not for commenter Stacie, who goes a month without reading sometimes, thank you very much, and then stumbles upon a dry spell and COMMENTS on it. Whatever, Galang. Oh, and see you Saturday for shopping.) that I post this inconsequential twaddle.
I have finished the first draft of my dissertation prospectus. Technically speaking, I sat down and did it in four days last week. Which gives rise to the obvious question, “Why didn’t you just sit down in April and write it?” To which I would reply, “Ah. I choose to do things in the fullness of time.” Or, rather, “Because they kept having Project Runway marathons play over and over. I have priorities, people.” I volunteered to let my classmates tear apart this prospectus at a colloquium in December. Because I value the thoughts and opinions of those fine, insightful people. Because I am a big fan of chariot races.
A popular woman’s magazine voted my home town “the most depressing city in America for women” a few years ago. This is an interesting distinction, not entirely unlike coming in last in the Boston Marathon. Obtaining both titles aren’t really flattering, but they are extreme. How often can someone or some place say they were proven to be, quantitatively speaking, the worst? Not too often, friends.
In any case, this is where I am currently visiting. The most depressing city in the country for women. And I can see the point of whoever voted for this. It is raining and the world is cast in this permanent gray twilight. As I walk with Peter to the library, more and more stores are closed, more buildings abandoned. And every time I see my friends from high school, at least one of them always says, “You know Adrienne, we always thought you’d be the last to get married.”
Yes. Well, thanks. I guess it’s good I moved.
In any case, since I am far away from Boston, the people who educate me must contact me via email. Email I can only check once in a while, since I am forced to live without the speedy connectivity I have come to take for granted living in residence halls. And since I have far less connectivity, I am not quite able to respond to my adviser as quickly as I should. As quickly as I should like to communicate my horror at his requests, that is.
Take for instance, this most recent exchange:
“Adrienne, we are having a graduate student colloquia and I would like you to submit your dissertation prospectus. Other graduate students can hear about your process of creating it, and you can get valuable feedback.”
*silence, as visions of circling vultures flash before my eyes*
“Adrienne, think about it, I think it will be helpful.*
“silence, as I think about how my ‘dissertation prospectus writing process’ consists of fifteen minutes of concentrated reading or writing, followed by four hours of reading Wil Wheaton’s web page, followed by an hour weeping about chosen academic life, follow by twelve hours of sleep.”
“Seriously, Adrienne, it will be helpful”
“silence--or is it silence? That depends--if a person’s head explodes and there is no one around to hear it, does it really make a sound?*
So, since I cannot effectively communicate the fact that my feeble academic efforts are the product of both the most depressing city in America for women and a person who finished last in the Boston Marathon, I have consented to give a little lecture on my process and progress.
Which makes me think I really should have centered the paper around Wil Wheaton. I would then at least have had the research on him to back up my findings.
Have I ever mentioned that I live about three blocks from Fenway Park?
Indeed, I do.
And it seems as though those people who play that game there did something that people like. Because right now there is a wall of youth and cars streaming past my window making a lot of noise.
If anyone needs me, I am hiding under my bed, praying my residents all live to see tomorrow.
