I am a horrible blogger. I always have good intentions but they all do down the toilet when I actually sit down to write. I think it's my academic lifestyle; I've become hyper-conscious of every thing I write. Is it smart enough? Succint enough? Am I talking out of my ass and if so, how many pages can I fill up before someone figures that out?

But this is the kind of thing I should be writing about because it's the kind of shit I need to vent. Luckily I've never been one of those people who revises e-mails to make sure they're perfect before hitting the send button, but that's not to say I don't feel mildy paranoid when I do. E-mail still strikes me as being obnoxious or arrogant. You miss out on all the subtleties of communication you get in person or even on the phone. I have had decent e-mail communication with only a few people, and one of them was Mike, the husband. Flirtatious wit and academic tension -- that was good times.

Right now I'm writing this because I'm avoiding the poetry of W.B. Yeats. I'm just not feeling the Yeats love. But I keep telling myself I'm on the homestretch of study for my first comp, and after Yeats I'm rewarding myself with some Wilfred Owen. Now that's some good writing.

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