Yes I realize how long it's been since I posted, but if you saw how much I type in a given day you'd understand. I've been temping. In the basement of some Taylor office. Typing graduation announcements and diploma lists. Lists of people who are receiving Masters degrees in English Literature somewhere in Nebraska. I find some kind of irony in that. And I wonder if they all have wonderful jobs lined up. Jobs in which they are given their own office, a place to hang this new diploma, health insurance, tasks that make them think. I pray that they don't; that, instead, they suffer like me--stuck in a cubicle and wondering what the weather is like. There are no windows in the basement, you know.

My wrists, shoulders, back ache. The last two fingers on my left hand have gone numb. I'm pecking this entry.

But still things are ok. My nights are my own, even if I choose to waste them in front of the television. I don't have a thesis to think about, or grades to get in. When I write, it's for me. My house is relatively clean. I take more time to cook dinner. And I'm sure I can be happy with this life for another few months at least.