Having survived the past two weeks, I left my dorm room yesterday, hopped on the train to Newark, sat there until my plane deigned to take off, and eleven hours after leaving Princeton, walked into my house.
The past two weeks have been hectic, but good. I got up early on my birthday and trekked over to the creative writing office to sign up for this semester's section. I was sixth in line (having shown up an hour before sign-ups opened) and got my top choice, the section taught by Jeffrey Eugenides, author of Middlesex (one of my favorite books). The next day I got up early again, this time to sign up online for the rest of my classes. I got all the classes I wanted, including an English class called "Dublin: The City and the Word" taught by Colm Tóibín, author of The Master. So I'll be spending five hours a week next semester taught by two of my living writers.
Currently, I'm sitting watching The Shadow in the North and writing Christmas cards. That must be one of the marks of adulthood, surely: to have to write your own Christmas cards.