Fault!

The Horizons elections over and done with, the last bit of any sort of responsibility has finally lifted from my weary shoulders. It's a sense of liberation that reminds me mildly of the youthful innocence of freshman year, when 100 level classes and humid evenings outside Welch cafeteria were really the only worries one had. The only problem is that this new liberation has morphed, quite unexpectedly, into good old fashion bordem. Dear reader, between now and finals, I don't have a whole to do. Dr. Gitter provides my only real engagment with schoolwork with his book discussions on immigration (which, I'll have you know, as an immigrant, I'm all for). My other classes are stumbling along, seemingly sharing my sense of academic limbo, lulling me into a false sense of security before the finals.

In the interim, however, there's not a whole lot to do. Actually, that’s not quite true. Just this Sunday, there was a barbeque in the Thomson lawn, taking advantage of the perfect whether Ohio has recently had to offer. The same evening, the India Literacy Project organized a traditional Indian dance performance in Philips. Today, as I was walking back from editing class, a band of what seemed like nomadic puppeteers were performing outside Bashford. Then of course, there are the class representative elections tomorrow.

So I suppose it’s not really that there's nothing to do, it's just that junior year coming to an end, my legs just refuse taking me much further than my house's kitchen downstairs. I've been spending endless hours in front of my computer screen, shirtless, smelly and chocolate-toothed (refer to first blog entry) engaging in the great global dialect (i.e. reading the most inane, obsucre articles the New York Times has to offer) from the orange confines of my room.

The one time I did manage to make it past my house's front steps was when I went to go watch Taimour, my compatriot and fraternity brother, play for our varsity tennis team. It was a peach of a Saturday, cloudless and bright blue. The pervasive smell of blossoms was in the air, which was of course accompanied by the pervasive sight of sun bathing Ohio Wesleyan females, some of the Mid-West's finest. Anyway, along with Julian, another fraternity brother, I decided to rekindle my fledgling tennis career on the practice courts. Needless to say, the lethal forearm hasn't lost its bite, but the serve, which landed slightly out of the service square (to be more precise, it landed on the court on which the final of the varsity tournament against Wabash was being played) left something to be desired. Maybe that's why I haven't left the house in a while.

Ciao for now.