Three months.

It's been three months since I sat down on a lonely Saturday afternoon and began this blog. It simultaneously doesn't seem that long ago and also like I have been doing it since the dawn of humanity. Hominids still stalked the African plains, all nekkid and hairy, waiting to die, waiting to live, waiting for true bipedalism. I was writing this blog when London was a malarial swamp and the foundations of the Great Wall were laid by paranoid, xenophobic Qin Dynasty toadies whose broken and hobbled bodies were thrown into the works as fill. I was writing this blog when Athens consisted of caves hewn into the side of a big, flat rock that would become the Acropolis. I was writing this blog when Rome was an Etruscan settlement on a river that nobody had taken the time to name. I was writing this blog when Cher was actually an organic being and not a singing piece of Tupperware and when Madonna actually WAS a virgin.

To all of you who continue to read this drivel, thanks. If you are Catholic, reading this blog every day means one less century or two in Purgatory; if Hindu or Buddhist, you'll be released from the Wheel of Existence; if Muslim, there is no need to visit Mecca; if Sikh... uh... well, you'll see Punjabi on here every once in a while. I got nothin' for you.

Last night, I took my French final exam. The sensation of freedom, momentary as it is, is much like what I imagine dogs in pounds feel like when they get picked; you laid your best tricks on the line, like sitting, begging, and rolling over, and then in the end, you get to go home. Of course, that's where the metaphor ends: next semester, I will continue to be basted on a hellish spit by Francophone imps in the Readings in French for Graduate Students part II.

Freedom, that is, if I passed it. If not, I will--and here, I just threw up in my mouth a little--have to take it again next year. Nothing, save having my lymph nodes torn out by ferrets, would delight me more.

One time, long ago, I knew a woman who asked me if I had a Swiss Army knife in my backpack. Apparently, she'd found a dead seagull in the parking lot of the Maine Center for the Arts and, uh, wanted to sever one of its wings so that she could use it in a wiccan ritual.

There. That's the whole story. Well, I mean, other than the fact that I stood and looked at her for like ten minutes without blinking, wondering how in the hell I meet the people I meet. (If you attended UMaine from 1992-2002, you will know this woman; trust me.)

One. Last. Class. To. Go. Of course, it's Ottoman. What better way to spend a dismal Friday afternoon than poring over 13th century texts written in a language you don't even come close to being able to read, or understand? I'm an intellectual sadist, apparently.

Well, off I go. Try to stay out of trouble, all y'all.

Dom

PS. This marks, despite what the counter says, my 101st post. Wow.