I don't date much. In the span of about 10 months in 2009, I went on about five dates (and two of those were "we didn't really say they were dates but we both knew they were; I could tell by the way smiled an extra 3 seconds at an unfunny joke" type dates). This whirlwind of romantic activity had never happened before, and has not been repeated with such fervour since. I've often lamented that I hate dating. I get nervous and awkward and, especially if I like the guy, my teeth chatter and feel like I'm going to vomit. My topics of conversation go down weird bunny trails so before I know it, our delightful conversation about some book we mutually enjoy has turned into a systematic recounting of all the ways to effectively poison someone in the 15th century. I adopt a laugh that is not mine, I never like my hair, and I'm too afraid that my lipstick has smudged to even listen to what he's saying. And who can ever figure out what to do with their hands?
Showing posts from March, 2013
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You know what? February is a short month. Also, February is a busy time when you are a grad student. Scratch that; every time is a busy time when you are a grad student. So you'll forgive my forgetting that I actually have a blog until this week. A quick recap on what's happened in the past four weeks: I wrote some papers, I presented some of said papers, I went home and marked some other people's papers. There's been a lot of 8 1/2 x 11 in my life this past month. I've been meaning to post a review of Julian Barnes' 2011 Man Booker Prize winning book The Sense of an Ending since early January when I finished it, but I wanted to let the story settle and when it had, there just wasn't time. But since there will never be time, I'm doing it now, while my coffee is still hot and my fingers are agile. I've been a devoted Julian Barnes fan since I read England, England in 2008. He is a philosopher first and a writer second, and he is preoccupied with