It’s hard to be witty when you’re all snotty

I’m engaged in hand to hand combat with a cold. The cold is currently pressing its fist against my face and forcing a cough and a lot of mouth breathing. Amidst my unfortunate nasal fluid releases, I have nonetheless read three academic articles, of varying interest. I’ve noticed that my feet are being forcefully plunged in cold theoretical waters, and I’m begrudging, but I guess social work will serve as my gateway to the arctic theoretical lands. It’s a one way journey. I fear that on the other end of this frozen analytical road, my language will become cluttered and ugly, and I will no longer be able to express myself simply. I fear that reverie and poetry will be eliminated for the sake of precision. Let’s hope not, dear readers. I guess this is the time to make a pledge to myself–I am definitely going to be forged, like molten steel, into a new psychic/intellectual and emotional shape by my training, but I also want to cling to my playfulness. I need to leave room for goofing off, exploration, inefficient uses of time, and my devotion to napping. Keeping these sacrosanct may help me try to protect my art side from my academy side.
Which reminds me, my readers have had my memoir manuscript for three weeks. Should I remind them that comments are soon due?

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