There is no point to this post.

My sister having moved into her own house (notice the ablative absolute, the "Rolls-Royce of Latin constructions"), I have moved into her old room. It is considerably larger than mine, but somehow, flagrantly defying the law of conservation of matter, the stuff from my tiny closet of a bedroom does not fit into the galaxy of space in which I now reside.

The problem persisted after I threw out many things as useless as and including two pounds of writing utensils that were neat-looking (i.e. shiny, sparkly, pink, purple, holographic, or possessing any distinctive properties whatsoever), 99% of which have not fuctioned in their intended capacity for, I would say, approximately fifteen years. It has been a tedious job, and I have not even mentioned yet how annoying a process polishing a miniature silver tea service is:



Lucky for me, this sort of thing is my only job. I am now, officially, an unemployed English major. I feel fairly comfortable with this. I don't want to live in a world where people who can read Beowulf but don't understand the stock market are readily employable; that seems almost immoral. I think reading Neil Gaiman's biography of Douglas Adams may have had a detrimental effect on my attitude. I now think it is proper and right that the life of an English major should begin with an extended period in which he or she fails to find gainful employment. According to this model, things are going precisely as planned. What a relief.