I just looked through the list I made over winter break – that was in December, over four months ago – of books I wanted to read. Out of 18, I have read one. And I think the one was in December. I hate this so much. I mostly blame senior year/thesis, but then I worry that the entire rest of my life is also going to be like this semester, and I will not have time to read anything more challenging than blog posts complaining about the iPad until I retire. I realize I sound like a brat, but I thought one of the perks of being an overeducated privileged white elitist kid was having time to read The House of Leaves. Someone has some explaining to do.