Another Message from Valeri Comstock

My employer, Ms. Grosland, has asked that I once again assume her duties at the keyboard and inform you of her present activities. As many of you are no doubt aware, she has been heavily immersed in preparations for her departure to Russia this coming Saturday. One might think that she has merely been too preoccupied to update her readers with the adventure's progress; however, the sad truth of the matter is that each time Ms. Grosland has attempted to write this post she's gone into a fit of soprano arias lasting no less than fifteen minutes. (It's a nervous habit of hers.) It has been decided - by both Ms. Grosland and her landlady - that this must stop. Thus, you will need to get your information from me.

Ms. Grosland departs early Saturday morning, arriving in St. Petersburg on Sunday evening. The prospect of flying across the Atlantic Ocean in the middle of the night, while romantic, is doing nothing to calm my mistress's nerves - as she has never before boarded an airplane. Once she arrives, she will meet with the Native Coordinator and her fellow teachers. Presumably she will be spending the night with her host family, though she knows nothing about them as of this time. By September 1st, she is expected to have begun her teaching career. By September 2nd she is expected to have seriously reconsidered all of this.

However, being a woman of firm constitution and with a stubborn desire for adventure, she will carry on - no doubt, with a song on her lips - until her doubt and fear dissolve once more. She is far too excited to be finally doing something to let a silly thing like fear keep her from doing it.

In fact, this final week has been hectic enough to make her wish she was already gone. It would be enough for her to simply be busy with packing and shopping for supplies. However, she has to find time to do that while getting in her usual forty hours at work and attempting to accept the social calls of nearly all of her acquaintances. (There appears to be a great deal of anxiety among the general populace about Ms. Grosland being gone so long. I, myself, cannot understand this.) The strain of these preparations has affected her mind, I'm afraid.

There, see? She's doing handstands on the veranda again. Please excuse me for a moment.

...

...

...

Thank you. Sorry for the interruption. In confidence, I'll be glad when she finally leaves. Ms. Grosland is not one for waiting, and the anticipation of this trip is killing the both of us. I look forward to the day she finds an internet cafe in St. Petersburg, so that she might reclaim her blogging duties.

Until then, I remain . . .

Cordially yours,

Valeri Comstock


P.S. Oh, and my mistress wishes me to point out that her prediction from last December - that she would "watch at least 12 of my friends become married people" in 2011 - has come true. She is now up to 13 people on her list, and the summer is not even over yet.

The Story of Wednesday

Jessica wanted to be good.

She knew it wasn't good to stay up all night, even if she'd had a nap the day before, but she wanted to be able to turn her research paper in on time, so when Wednesday morning came around it found her at the computer, staring bemusedly at her outline.

Jessica had resigned herself to having a long conversation with the blank pages about Gwendolyn Brooks, New Historicism, and abortion; she pretended not to notice as 12:00am turned to 1:00am turned to 2:00am. When her alarm went off at 3:00am, she realized she wasn't going to make it to work. She called in and explained that she wasn't well and would have to take the morning off. She didn't mention the essay, which might have been lying; and her crew would have to make up for her absence. Those weren't good things.

It was good when she finished her paper, though. "Life . . . and death" were the last three words. Alphabetize the Works Cited page. Fix the header. Spellcheck. Print. Staple. She put the essay into her green American Literary History folder. She smiled, then fell onto the couch and slept for a long time.

Only it wasn't a long time. She woke up at 7:45am, only about three and a half hours after finishing her paper. Sleep was good, but who could afford it? Jessica brushed through her hair with her fingers; she didn't shower, but she did eat breakfast; and she only had to park three blocks away from campus when she got to school. Good and bad were balanced, then.

When she presented the abstract of her second research paper to her Writing Literary Criticism class, everyone applauded and the professor was highly impressed. Good. But Jessica really hadn't the slightest idea what she was going to write for the next nine pages of her paper. Bad. So, it was more balancing. Where was her umbrella?

She had done all the homework for all her classes that day. She didn't pay attention very well sometimes, and her stomach was yelling at her for not packing a lunch, but when she was walking the three blocks back to her car after Spanish class, she told herself, "No te preocupas. Todo es bien."

The ladies at the Daughters of the Utah Pioneers museum were fascinated by her research paper (the one for Church History this time) and wanted a copy of the essay to keep on file. That was good; almost as good as what happened later, when Jessica helped her neighbor attach a door in the hollow doorway of Jessica's bedroom. Her very own door! But now what would she do with the shower curtain?

Next, she should have started those revisions for her Church History paper. Or written up that ensayo for Spanish. At the very least, she should have taken her clothes out of the dryer and hung them in her closet. But she didn't do any of those things. Instead, she curled up on the couch and tumbled headfirst into unconsciousness.

She woke to an itch on her face. Her dad was standing over her, flicking her bangs with a pencil. She swatted at him, irritated. He giggled, poking at her again. In an instant she had spun around to face him and punched him solidly in the kidneys before he could scurry away. He cried out, retreating. His giggles faded away as he left the room. But she was awake now, and things were not good.

It was 8:30pm. That meant the dance concert she was supposed to attend and write a review of was already over. Bad. She had ten online worksheets she needed to do for her Spanish class, and they were all due at midnight. Bad. And she had done nothing on her Church History paper, which was due on Friday. Very bad.

She didn't eat dinner. She bolted to her laptop, bolted herself to the laptop, and started working on those Spanish assignments. She knew - and dreaded - that she'd be pulling another all-night marathon on Thursday to finish her Church History paper, but that couldn't be helped now. It was nearly 11:30pm before she finished the Spanish homework, but she couldn't miss work again, so she crawled into bed with the promise of another meager night's sleep awaiting her. Lying there in the dark, Jessica wondered if she was sleeping more during the day than during the night this semester. Then she sighed and rolled over, clutching her stuffed cheetah, Jumanji, to her chest.

Jessica wanted to be good. She hoped that counted for something.

My Marvelous, Perfect Life

I just got in from my tennis lesson, and thought I'd jot down a few notes before I hit the shower. I can't take much time though, because Henry will be here to pick me up for the charity banquet at eight o'clock. (I think I'll wear the midnight blue Chalét with that diamond necklace I got from my aunt last Christmas. I'll put the pictures up later!)

Since I had the day off from classes, I decided to get a bit of work done. I got up at six to go for a nine-mile run - just to get the blood flowing, you understand - and when I got home I made a gourmet breakfast for my family. (Really, it was no work at all. Cooking comes so naturally to me, it's just like breathing.) It only took two hours to clean the entire house, so I repainted the siding and patched the roof as well. Honestly, I was rather bored by around noon. I wished I had some homework to do, but of course I'm all caught up on my assignments - and two weeks ahead ! (That research paper took no time at all, I was almost disappointed.)

None of my students are in school, so there was no tutoring to do either. I sat at my piano and composed a couple of sonatas to pass the time before my deliverance finally arrived: a phone call from my dear friend Gustav. He was going spelunking and wondered if I might come along. Well, of course I said yes! I told him I needed to be back by five for my tennis lesson, so we took his helicopter to the mountain, to save time. (Gustav is such a tease; all this talk of me modeling for his paintings... I had enough of being a model during my time as Miss America last year.)

While in the cave, I found several promising artifacts from the Mozati tribe (easily identified by the quadratic motif) and a full skeleton of the Brontosaurus! It was very exciting. I cannot wait to take my findings to the museum tomorrow. It took a bit of time, though, so we dove over the waterfall in all our gear to reach the helicopter faster, and I just made it in time for my tennis lesson.

Michael is such a wonderful coach! When I beat him three out of five games, he was so impressed that he took me out for ice cream afterward. He told me he'd really developed a fondness for me, and wanted to see me taken care of. (He's not so sure about Henry; he seems to think dating the prince of England could put a strain on my life. I've told him, this isn't my first "foreign affair" as it were. Lol!) I invited him to bring his wife along to the charity ball, so that he can meet Henry in person and see what a charming man he is. (Prince Charming. How perfect!)

Well, I'm nearly out of time. I know nothing particularly excited happened today, but I feel it important to chronicle my daily happenings. It should prove useful if I ever find the right author for my biography. (I've had several offers so far, but really, don't you think they ought to wait until I've had a bit more life to write about? When I'm 25, I'll consider allowing the book.)

Speaking of books, I've just sold the movie rights to my latest novel Slightly Slanted. So circle the month of July 2013 on your calendar, and I'll save you guys a seat at the premier!

All my love,

Jessica Dreamland

First Officer's Log: Stardate 42837.6

Captain Decker won't return from her away mission for another two weeks, and I've had my hands full trying to keep this ship together. I wanted this first command to run as smoothly as possible, especially because I knew we'd be getting a visit from Admiral Miller. Of course, things didn't go as planned.

Admiral Miller arrived promptly at 0600 this morning, and I hardly had time to show her to her quarters before we went into red alert. When I made it to the bridge, Lieutenant Giegy explained quickly that a Force-8 ion storm was headed our way. We attempted to alter course, but there wasn't time. It hit us full blast, and we just had to batten down the hatches and wait it out.

We made it through in one piece, but just barely. Lieutenant Barlowe managed to save the engines, but they'll still take at least four days to repair. The storm lasted more than six hours, and with the turbulence, I don't think a single crewman let go of his consol that entire time. The turbolifts stopped working as soon as the storm hit, so we had people crawling through the Jeffries tubes all day. After running down the corridors, clinging to walls, just trying to hold the ship together, when the storm finally passed everyone was exhausted.

I was impressed by Admiral Miller. She has a reputation for asking nothing less than unflinching excellence from the crews of the ships she visits, so I wasn't sure how she would react when her first impression of Jaifus consisted of a frantic crew and a bruised starship. But she was magnificent. She said she could see how hard we were all working and that we had managed to save more of the ship than a less-skilled crew could have done. "A Level-8 ion storm is nothing to joke about," she said. "But your crew handled it masterfully."

In fact, she was so pleased by our performance that she took the entire senior staff down to the Sick Bay, and then replicated hot chocolate for us and the wounded crewmen. "Nothing like hot chocolate during a storm, is there?" she said. It was a real boost for morale, and I expect her kind actions to be the reason why the repairs have been proceeding so quickly.

I look forward to reporting all of this to the Captain when she returns, but until then, I am happy to spend some more time with Admiral Miller, who will be staying with us while we complete repairs.

-

Commander Sicka

Don't give me that look; you're not studying either!

Monday

• Wake up (at 3:00am, as usual) with your heart pounding and sweat across your forehead. It takes you a minute to get out of the nightmare and realize that no one is throwing knives at you. At first, you're relieved. Then you remember it's Finals Week.
• Work from 4:00-7:30am. Everyone has a taut grin plastered to their face. Even when no one's talking about it, everyone is thinking about Finals. You try to shove it to the back of your mind and focus on the glitter embedded in the preschool carpet.
• After work, go to the library. You hurry and send off an email to your New Testament teacher that has your final essay attached to it, getting it sent 3 minutes before the deadline. Phew! Then you print off the copies of the midterms your teacher has posted online, hoping they'll help on the comprehensive final you're taking today.
• New Testament study group at 9:00. You get there and pick your way through the crowded room. Even though the study room only fits 11 students, over 30 desperate students have squeezed into spaces on the floor, some of them underneath the table. Some other group has reserved the room at 10:00, so you only have an hour to cram in a semester's worth of notes. Speed reading and scratchy handwriting dominate. You find that your loud voice and tendency to be bossy lead you to take charge the discussion unintentionally. But it's all for the best, since their answers were wrong and they needed to be told so.
• Kicked out of the study room at 10:00, you wander the library looking for a desk to study at. There are no spaces left. You end up hunkered down in an aisle full of Chinese books, waiting for your next study group to start.
• At 11:00, you're in a new room, studying for your Fundamentals of Literary Interpretation final. There are only four people at this study group, but collectively your notes still take up the entire table, an inch and a half thick. You have two hours here, but most of that time is spent in communal groaning. "Explain Barthes's reasoning when he argues that a writerly text is a text before the text is written," one student says, reading off the study guide. A girl at the end of the table interjects, "I don't know, but I'd like to punch him in the face." Everyone agrees loudly. It's the only thing we're sure about.
• After the study group, you head over to the CougarEat, because your mom told you that you had to have a full meal sometime today, and apparently Zesta crackers don't count. You find a table to yourself somehow, and shove food toward your face inattentively while trying to remember if it was Herod the Great or Herod Antipus who ordered infanticide to try to kill Jesus.
• Sometime around 1:50pm, you decide that you're as ready as you're ever going to be to take your New Testament final. You pack up your things and run over to take your test, feeling antsy now. But you run into a very long line, which you follow back for a few hundred yards before you find the end of it. Great. A lady walks past you, calling to the line in general, "Forty-five minutes from this point! Forty-five minutes!"
• Miraculously, it only takes you half an hour to get into the room to take your test. After wandering around looking for an empty seat for five minutes or so, you end up stuck on the end of the table by the door, so you can hear the proctors laughing in the other room. THAT'S not helpful.
• An hour later, you come out of the Testing room and hand your paper over to a proctor, who flings it around as if it's nothing, apparently not realizing that she holds your life and death in her hands. You cringe as you walk to the screen that will show your score. At first you can't look; you close your eyes and mutter one last, desperate prayer. When you open your eyes, you can't believe it. 99%! You gasp in surprise and won't move from that spot, holding onto the fantasy, waiting for the number to change to a low 80s score, like usual. But it doesn't. And soon you're skipping back past the line of students still waiting to take their test, and they look like they want to spit in your happy little face.
• You plan to study when you get home, but you pass out instead. When you wake up, it's almost six o'clock, and you still have to study for your British Literature final tomorrow morning. You find your notes and textbook and get to work.
• Four hours later, you still don't feel ready. Everyone else has gone to bed, and none of them have to be up at 3:00 the next morning. You sigh mournfully, looking down at your pile of materials, then decide you can't pass the final if you don't sleep. You consider going downstairs to your bedroom, but instead you collapse on the living room couch, falling asleep in your clothes.

Tuesday

• You wake up at 3:00, but you feel so lousy that you call your boss and tell him you can't come in to work today. That buys you three more hours' sleep, but you still have some more to study and have to be at school by 8:00 to take your final. You curl back into the cushions of the couch and you're out like a light.
• Your dad wakes you up at 5:55, worried that you've slept through work. You thank him for waking you up 5 minutes before your alarm was supposed to go off, and then growl some more until he leaves you alone. Eventually, you get up and study for another hour.
• It's 7:00. You've got to leave soon, or you'll risk being late for your final, but you haven't done anything but study. You pull your hair up into a sloppy ponytail while you're eating a banana, then rush into the bathroom to brush your teeth and put on some deodorant. You're glad you slept in your clothes, because now you don't have to get dressed. (You hope no one will realize you're wearing the same clothes that you wore yesterday.) You pull on your boots, grab your backpack, and run out the door, completely forgetting your flash drive.
• You get to the classroom early, which gives you some time to breathe and to really get nervous about the exam. It's a strange one, oral instead of written, but in groups, and you're not sure what to expect. Your professor gets there and gets you started. For two hours, you talk about Beowulf and Lanval and Shakespeare and Protestantism and George Herbert and Samuel Johnson and Queen Elizabeth and Jonathon Swift and Lady Montague and Metaphysical Poetry and The Royal Society and on and on and on until you think you're going to self-combust.  But the test ends, and you're allowed to leave. Even though you don't get your score immediately, you feel like you did your best and you're just SOOO glad to have that test over with.
• You find a free space on campus with an outlet, and you plug in your laptop. Two finals down, four to go. You want to take your biology final today, so you pull up the internet to start studying. But before you can start thinking about phytochemicals, you decide to visit your blog. Once there, your fingers hit the keys and you start spewing out words, a fountain of letters and phrases. It lets your stress fly away, people like to read it, and it keeps you from studying for a while. But soon, you've run out of things to say, and you know you've got to put that rubbed-raw nose of yours back to the grindstone.
• Ah well, it was nice while it lasted.

12 Days: ni;f wafaakl;asfdkl

Yes, I did just pound the keyboard viciously, instead of typing an actual title. Do you have a PROBLEM with that?!

beeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeep...

--Please excuse the interruption. The author started trying to eat the desk chair and was forced down with a tranquilizer bullet. Her psychiatrist has confined her to quarters. What follows is the transcript of their conversation.--

--P.S. This may possibly be illegal. Anyone who reports this blog to the authorities will be reprimanded severely by a narcoleptic Argentinian.--

Well, here we are again. Why do you think we keep having to get together, Jessica?

Because the universe HATES me.

You're deflecting, Jessica. You're trying to avoid the real issue at heart.You're ignoring your own personal responsibility for what's happening.

I didn't ask to come here. And I'm pretty sure I gave a bloody nose to one of the guys trying to force me onto that couch. I've been taking charge just like you told me, and yet - Look! I'm still here. So don't blame me for this lovely little get-together.

This is about you, Jessica. This is about why you keep having nervous breakdowns. ...would you like to talk about why you're so tense?

It couldn't be because I've been drugged, kidnapped, and locked in a room with a man I once pushed out a four-story window. That would just make sense.

You seem hostile.

I was BORN hostile. I used to beat up boys in my Nursery class. (True story.)

You aren't answering me. You're avoiding talking - 

Yeah, that's right. I'm avoiding talking. I have a right to speak when I want to and a right to shut the heck up when I want to. I don't want to be here. I don't want to talk to you. And I certainly don't want to talk about ME. I'm my least favorite subject.

....Alright.

....Alright?

Yes. That's fine. We don't have to talk about you.

....Really?

Yes.

....Okay. Good....

Do you feel better? Can we talk about something else?

Yeah. Okay.

Good. So, how's school?

beeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeep...

--Please excuse the interruption. The author has been moved to new quarters after beating her psychiatrist to a bloody pulp. We at Singing Devil feel it might be best to end the blog post now. We will return tomorrow, after the author has finished trying to bite off her own legs--

21 Days: A Private Letter

Dear Jessica,

You are not a bad person because you are struggling in school. You are not weak. You are a girl on the verge of womanhood, who is tired and scared of everything that waits for you. You feel very small right now, a dinghy in the ocean, tempest-tossed. But you are not small. You are great.

You have talents and skills that can save people. You have an inner light that is strong, despite what you may feel now. The storms that tear at your heart are fleeting and insubstantial. What you are will outlast them. You are so much more powerful than the monsters beating at your door. Only your fear keeps you trapped in the corner, hiding from perceived terrors. Stand up. Fight them. Take the punches, knowing that for every one you receive, you are delivering with twice as much force. It will hurt, but you will win. You will.

Don't be ashamed to feel sorrow. There is darkness, and there are reasons enough to cry. These are not moments of weakness. The blackest nights will be the same to you as the brightest days: they will shape you.

If a paper is put into the fire, it will burn and turn to ash. If a bar of steel is put into the fire, it will learn to bend and to change its shape, until it has become a fine tool. But what if the steel believes it is only a piece of paper? What will happen then?

Do not let the image you hold of yourself become warped or disfigured. When you can't be sure of your own face, take a breath. Remember the smallest, purest instances of who you are, and work your way up. You are a pair of blue eyes. You are easy laughter. You are an excited pen. You are still here.

Let the world spin. Hold tight to yourself as an anchor. There are countless, unseen hands holding you up. They will not let you fall.

Go. And do what you came here to do.

Love Always,

Yourself

24 Days: From the Writing Desk

Well, here I am again. Plopping down in the squeaky, black chair in front of the computer. Look how my hands automatically fall into position on the keyboard, like an elastic snapping back into place. Oh, shoot. I still type with my wrists on the keyboard. Come on, Jessica. You know that's going to give you carpal tunnel someday, just like Mom. Wrists up. Remember that sadistic piano teacher who suggested you tape a bunch of needles under your hands when you played so that you'd learn not to drop your wrists? Pretend the needles are there. Let's not get blood on the keyboard.

Dum dee dum dee dum. This is boring. I have nothing to say. After 76 days of blog posts, how can anyone expect me to really have something of interest to put up here? I'm not opinionated enough for a blog. I think a lot about everything, but I'm not arrogant enough to assume that my beliefs are right for everyone. Politics, religion, science, it all goes on the back counter because I don't want to start an argument; I don't feel justified in telling other people they should think the way I do.

I've been thinking about this post all day. Lots of funny things have happened to me today. There was that whole mess with leaving a pitcher of orange juice by a chair in the library, only remembering it four hours later. And there was sneaking back into work under the nose of The Barbarian to turn in my nearly-stolen keys. Or what about my Literary Interpretation teacher making me read one of my answers from the midterm out loud to the class, simply because I'd written that I wanted to punch the major essayists in the nose?

But, no. Either too much, or too little. So not a funny anecdote from the day, then. And no opinion essays, I'm no good at those. And I haven't got any convenient creative writing bits waiting in the backlogs of the computer, to buy time with. What then? What am I supposed to write? What do these people expect, anyway? Why does anyone read this blog? It's nothing special. I have no themes, I rarely say anything of import. All I do is talk about myself: what I've been up to, what I'm thinking about, how I feel. Gosh, that's rather self-centered of me! But why do other people read it?

I'm sure someone will comment and say it has something to do with "writing style." Oh, that invisible, intangible, inexpressible ideal! A lot of nonsense, if you ask me. I have no style in writing anymore than I have a style in speech. Sometimes I try to craft my writing for a certain effect, but on this blog I am usually too tired to bother with trying to impress anybody. I just put my fingers to the keyboard and let it all come out: from my synapses to my screen. The keys are my nerve endings. There is no moderation there. (Well, no more than usual.)

Great. I'm near the end of the post now, and I still haven't said anything. All I do is ramble. All the time; on and on and on. At least on a blog, no one can really tell me to shut up. They don't have to listen if they don't want to, so they don't find me as annoying online. And if they do, I can delete their comments. Take that, besmircher!

Last paragraph. I think too much. Look how much space I've taken up with thinking. What a weirdo! Better wrap this up, I suppose. But do I try to bring a sense of conclusion, of farewell to the whole thing? Or do I leave the audience hanging? Just let the whole thing drop off with no explanations?

77 Days: Failing Literally

“Formalism, or New Criticism, emerged out of the hostilities present in the aftermath of the American Civil War. However, the assumptions that were given life during this period are still highly applicable to those studying the theory of literary criticism, and you will find them very useful in your future classes.”

The bald, aged professor walked slowly back and forth across the front of the classroom as he rambled. His words were lost on the students, and it wasn’t because the lecture content was beyond their understanding. This professor dealt out his lectures in a vile fashion, spluttering through overly moist lips so that his words were nearly drowned in saliva. He licked his chops and continued. “So, first thing to know is that the object of Formalism is to remove the text itself from all other factors: authorial intent, reader perception, historical context, that sort of thing. Many people, however, say that when a text is removed from its context, much of the meaning is lost.”

He stopped pacing, smacking his lips together one more time as he looked out on his class. “What do you guys think?”

The room, which only moments before had seemed to be a feeding ground for fidgeting fingers, became as still as stone. It was as if the students had been replaced with cardboard cutouts. Eyes were cast every which way except for towards the teacher, and no one was foolish enough to scratch their nose. No student makes it to college without understanding that in the immortal pause after a teacher has asked a question, any twitch of the hands will be taken as an irresistible yearning to share something with the class. The sprinkler-mouthed professor waited patiently for a few more moments, with the sharp eyes of a predator.

Quite suddenly, as if breaking the spell, someone sneezed.

“Yes, Jessica?” the professor ejaculated, bouncing forward as if to say gotcha!

The girl at the back of the room looked up in terrified shock. Her pupils shrank to pin-pricks as her face grew ever paler. The professor smiled encouragingly, brandishing his slimy molars at her. “Well, Jessica . . .” – he glanced down at the seating chart – “Grossland? What do you think about the validity of Formalism’s claims?”

She was silent for a moment.

Then she burst into tears.

She wailed and sobbed, blubbering nonsense as the students in the desks closest to her pulled back in fear. Then she scooped her books off the desk and snagged her backpack before running out of the room, nearly toppling the professor as she pushed past him.

The professor watched the door swing on its hinges for a minute, and then he turned back to the class. He coughed once, straightened his posture, then said, “Anyone else?”

Okay, so this didn't actually happen. But that's only because the professor never called on me. For someone who used to feel like school was a happy little home away from home, I have suddenly developed an extreme aversion to scholarship. I feel too stupid to handle even the simplest assignments. And trying to tackle five or six of them at a time . . . well, it generally encourages the crawl-into-a-hole-and-die side of me.

One most excellent coping strategy I've found is watching hilarious YouTube videos. So in honor of my sanity, the world cup, and Lord of the Rings, I give you this video. (PS. If you don't know what a vuvuzela is, I'd suggest you look up both it and the controversy before watching this clip. It will be much funnier that way.)

A Note From Valeri

To Whom it May Concern:

My employer, Ms. Jessica Grosland, is unavailable at present. She wishes to convey her sincerest apologies that she has been unable to post recently, but hopes that her faithful readers will understand the dilemma she currently faces.

Ms. Grosland had been working incredibly long hours over the last week, pushing herself mentally and physically to the extreme limit. She has been preoccupied with midterms, papers, research, presentations, and other schoolwork to the exclusion of almost all else. The exception to that is a newfound obsession with a novel entitled Mistborn. She sleeps and she eats, but only when absolutely necessary.

As her personal secretary, I extend her plea for understanding during this rather disastrous week. She is working on several more entertaining post which will come forthwith, but until she has regained her composure she fears that her readers will have to endure the absence of her clever witticisms for a while yet.

Cordially yours,

Valeri Comstock