Dear MLA job gods,
Please, oh please, don’t make me move to the South to get a job. I’ll sweat to death in Atlanta. Or Mississippi. Or Texas. Can’t you arrange a job somewhere nice and chilly where I can wear hand-knit sweaters in July? Or heck, anywhere where I can wear normal clothes in July and not get sweat stains in unsightly places. No one in the world needs to see that the backs of my thighs are sweating when I get up from an evening of writing on my back porch. Really, a girl should be able to sit on her porch in the evening and enjoy some time alone with her main squeeze (i.e. the Retro Laptop Roy) without getting sweaty thighs. If I’m going to get sweaty thighs on my back porch… Oh, wait, mom reads this.
Anyway, can’t you arrange for a position teaching Victorian literature to Eskimos? I’d be very happy to be a wee bit chilled at the moment.
Thanks. My knitting habit will appreciate it.
Aside from the sweaty thighs problem, spent the afternoon commiserating with Erica about our poor, jobless selves stuck in the B-Lo. We swam, we sunned, and we sweat. Summer in the city… it’s a stinky affair.