Sometimes I wonder what life would be like if I’d gotten a PhD in English. I catch myself daydreaming about scholarly alcoves and steaming cups of tea and a life of the mind.
But then, I remember that I’m not really suited for academia, beyond a fondness for sweaters and caffeine.
I’m laughing alone in the kitchen while Thea naps. The translation of Jung I’m reading for an essay in the works is [unintentionally, I think?] hilarious: “All comparisons are lame, but this simile is at least not lamer than others…” and “who does not know these touching old gentlemen who must always warm up the flame of life only by reminiscences of their heroic youth….”
And then, Thea’s awake and the time I was going to spend trying to understand the collective unconscious has instead been spent marking up the book with “haha!”