out of nowhere.

On my flight from LAX to SFO this afternnon, I started feeling guilty for missing my early seventeenth-century lit class and so I read some Sir Thomas Browne. I felt like the hugest nerd in the world. There I was - sandwiched between an old Indian man reading the United Airlines magazine, Hemispheres, and a businessman who looked like he had better things to be doing than sitting down - reading from this 3,000-page anthology about what some aristocrat thinks should happen to you after you die.

I might as well be wearing taped-up glasses and a pocket protector.

And all of this contemplation of thesis topics for my paper and senior thesis topics for a year from now and waiting in line for office hours and hating and loving the challenge of a good piece of literature has made me realize that I really admire professors for their single-minded dedication. It's really quite remarkable. It's got me thinking that - if I didn't hate people so much - I would totally want to be a professor. You know: use all the big words, edit some obscure academic journal, have a really comfy couch in my office. That's what they do, right? I'm sure it's that simple. I'm calling for a new life plan.