de-crankified

It was one of those weeks. Nothing seemed to work right, I was dropping shit left and right, I'd get frustrated at the teeniest things, and I was just exhausted. I slept in a bit today in a freshly made bed with thick flannel sheets and fourteen thousand blankets on top of me, so I feel a bit better. I don't feel like I have fourteen thousand things to do today, and I just might be able to have a simple day of cleaning the house and grading rhetoric papers. (Note that whenver I exaggerate, the number is some form of "14." Julie's number is "8." When we play softball this spring, we'll have to adopt those numbers for our jerseys.)

I think I might be beginning to be susceptible to the reading danger that plagues all dissertators. As I prepare to revise my prospectus, I find myself so easily swayed by all the other arguments out there that have even the slightest thing to do with Bourdieu or with authorship, and I convince myself that what I'm doing is stupid and obvious. I think that if and when this stupid and obvious book ever sees the light of day, it will have to include somewhere those two words together.

Stupid and obvious and a total of 14 copies sold.