Hamlet is Fun

I wrote this piece for a creative nonfiction class during my junior year of college. I am more than a bit leary about posting something so personal on the internet, but I have decided that it doesn't have to be a big deal. While I often wish that I had made different decisions, I am becoming increasingly less ashamed of my past as I continue to mature and move forward in life. Plus, the majority of people who actually read this blog suffered through this period of my life with me anyway. If you are a newer friend or an internet friend or a random visitor and you have questions, feel free to send them my way. Because I am still kind of paranoid, I'd really appreciate comments if you read this. I'd love to hear some suggestions on improving the style or content or anything else. Thanks.

*****

"No! I am not Prince Hamlet, nor was meant to be;
Am an attendant lord, one that will do
To swell a progress, start a scene or two,
Advise the prince; no doubt, an easy tool,
Deferential, glad to be of use,
Politic, cautious, and meticulous;
Full of high sentence, but a bit obtuse;
At times, indeed, almost ridiculous—
Almost, at times, the Fool."

- T.S. Eliot
"The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock"

“I am Polonius.” I struggle not to giggle. I attempt to mask my high-pitched, nasally voice with caricatural grandiosity. I state the opening line of this impromptu one-woman Hamlet show on a Saturday evening in October. I am a college junior, and I have been oddly enraptured by the tragic play for over three years. I am convinced that Shakespeare intended for this role to be portrayed exclusively by a short, chubby, balding man. To compensate, I kneel on the toast colored, beer stained carpet in my friends’ living room. I straighten my back and extend my belly. Good enough. I pause for dramatic effect. My tiny audience is surprisingly attentive.

“La la la. To thine own self be true. Be a good kid, Laertes. Listen to me. I am wise and wonderful and dead sexy and very chatty. More matter, with less art, requests Gerty. Blah, blah, blah. Oh, my daughter is assuredly making Hamlet crazy. I will get to the bottom of this, yet! As I am such an unbelievably brilliant mastermind, I shall hide behind this thick, velvety curtain and uncover the truth. My stealthiness knows no bounds . . . Ow! Oooh! Ouch!” I speedily collapse and clutch my chest with both hands. For half a minute, I thrash about on the floor. My arms flail wildly. I warp my face into a slew of hideous contortions in an attempt to relay the intense pain of being stabbed.

“Oh, the agony. I am not your rat, you loser! Oh, I am slain! Sad day for me.” I draw my limbs to my chest and lie curled in the fetal position. I quickly peer up to assure that my friends are enjoying themselves. Satisfied, I return to character in order to display my perfected dead person face. The side of my head meets the floor with a heavy thud. My lips part slightly as I fix my eyes blankly ahead.

“I am Horatio.” Quickly moving on with the performance, I jump up and stand atop the center of the coffee table.

“I am the most noble literary character of all time. I am a scholar. I know lots of Latin. So what if the ghost wasn’t exactly responsive to my efforts? I am Hamlet’s only true-blue buddy - the one who sticks it out until the end. And since I’m such a great guy, I am permitted to survive this nasty bloodbath of a drama.” Pausing, I clasp my hands together and tilt my head slightly to the left. I make the most contemplative face I can render, glancing down at the imaginary dead guy.

“Now cracks a noble heart - Goodnight, sweet prince. And flights of angels sing thee to thy rest! Alright, Fortinbras, march on in to restore the order in Denmark.”

“I am Gertrude.” I sit regally upon the edge of the table, crossing my legs at the ankles. I demonstrate my beauty queen wave and hold my chin high.

“Since my husband has suffered an untimely death, I might as well marry his brother. We can use the funeral leftovers for the wedding reception. What a grand and thrifty idea! Oh, my son has gone quite mad. Frailty thy name is woman!” In my manliest voice, I shout Hamlet’s blatant insult in an aggressive, yet comically drawn-out manner.

“Here, Hamlet, come in my bedroom and scream at me for a while. Then we can make out. (But only if you are Mel Gibson.) Oh, the agony! I am so torn. My husband, my son, my husband, my child, my throne, my life . . . Hamlet, honey, hand me your cup.” I form the universal choking sign with my hands. I cough, gurgle, and gag, as I farcically fall from my coffee table throne. “Oh, what a dark, sad day in Denmark.”

“I am Ophelia.” I announce the character change in a light, singsong tone. I begin to skip around in circles. It is difficult to contain my giddiness.

“I’m obedient and fair and everyone loves me. Oh, sad for Hamlet, my sort-of love. His dad is dead, and he is getting stranger by the day. Get thee to a nunnery!” My demanding Hamlet voice makes a quick reappearance.

"Um, no thanks, and you’re weird. Daddy, help! Hamlet is freaking me out. Does he honestly think I’ll look good in a habit? What? Dad is dead?” I sigh, placing the back of my hand on my forehead as I listlessly stagger around the room.

“Time to sing the remainder of my lines. I’m little Ophelia, the poor psychotic girl.” I dance about. I pass out make-believe flowers to my onlookers.

“Some rosemary for you. You get some rue. I’m beyond crazy now, and I hope you all feel guilty for the pathetically short remainders of your lives.” I stop and pull my hair from its drooping ponytail. Bending over, I fervently tousle it and shake my head in order to appear authentically disheveled.

“La la la la. Time to die. I’m off to find some heavy rocks to shove in my pockets. Fighting in my grave, boys? That’s intense, anyway.” I daintily collapse into a sloppy heap, kindly sparing my friends my interpretation of drowning oneself to death.

*****

I, like Ophelia, have also lost it. Overwhelming insecurities coupled with external stresses beyond my control have left me with disastrous coping mechanisms at points in my life. My body has been perpetually and relentlessly targeted as the scapegoat for my discontent. On a dreary afternoon in early April 2002, I arrive at my hometown cemetery. A faint drizzle of rain lingers. The sunless sky accents both the lifeless blacktop on which I travel and my colorless disposition. The cemetery is the ideal exercise facility during college breaks. It is quiet, serene, clean, and free of cost. Most importantly, I know that walking one lap around the new section and another around the old one equals almost exactly one mile. I need to accurately track the distance traveled in order to experience the slightest bit of relief.

I am alone with my thoughts. I can’t believe I ate that today. Fucking fat ass. I pinch my stomach and grasp each of my wrists. A recently consumed bagel sits sqarely in my stomach, a heavy, lumpy reminder of my ostensible failures. I try to assess the damage. Yep, definitely at least 10 pounds heavier than last week. What are people going to think when I get back to school? I can’t even be consistently sick. I glance at the rusty garbage can that rests to the right of my similarly colored car. Should I? Could I really get away with it? It’s already been at least fifteen minutes. And what if someone sees me? I drag myself past the parking area, tracing my collarbone with my fingers.

Oh, my goodness, my grades from last term . . . My second term average boasts three incompletes and a D in American Sign Language, presumably the easiest course offered at my college. A 0.9 GPA. I cringe in disbelief. Formerly an academic overachiever, I find myself abruptly plagued by an inexplicable strain of deranged perfectionism that prohibits me from accomplishing any work at all. Lovely. I’m still fat. I feel like shit, and I’ve ruined my entire college career. What a plan.

I slow my pace. I walk with my head fixed to my right. I eye every shiny, upright tombstone with the hopes of catching an accurate glimpse of myself in a makeshift mirror. After a few minutes, I approach the towering headstone of a fourteen year old killed in a car accident three days before Christmas. It is a gorgeous standout that displays a haunting etching of a weeping willow that the artistic youth sketched prior to his passing. It allows me to examine myself from the hips down. I stop and stare. Gross. My legs are way bigger than I thought. And my butt? I’m never eating again. Facing the tombstone, I press my heels together. I roll my black yoga pants to my knees and begin to scrutinize my calves. I then tug at the material hugging my thighs and measure the space between them. Elephantine. I squeeze my stomach chub and turn from side to side, examining my profile from every imaginable angle. Eventually, I force myself to continue walking, checking my arms for Oprah flub as I round the corner. People are silly. No one this fat is worthy of concern. Not entirely satisfied, I search out another means by which to view myself. I spot a large mud puddle a couple of feet to my left. I am thankful to be the lone visitor in this section of the graveyard. I straddle the edges of the misshapen circle, hovering over the murky waters in a desperate search to see myself.

Four Weddings and a Funeral

As of next weekend, I will have attended four weddings of four friends in four months. Weddings are lovely events, obviously, and I have heard lots and lots about all of the time and effort and planning it takes to pull one off. As a result, I started thinking about what I'd like my wedding to be like. I then promptly started feeling like a loser, as it's not likely that I'll find someone to marry me in the near (or even distant) future. I just can't start pretend planning that yet. That's kind of lame. So, I've taken to planning my funeral instead. This notion was further encouraged when I watched The Boy Whose Skin Fell Off on TLC one afternoon. It is a documentary that chronicles the last months of the life of a man named Jonny who suffered from a horrible, awful disease from birth. He narrates it, even though he is dead by the end of it. He plans his own funeral and is filmed asking people to speak and picking out his casket. He has a can of baked beans, among other things, etched into one of the wooden coffin panels, stating that he wants people to ponder the significance of the beans during the service. He laughs that there is no significance, and he thinks it's a pretty fun little prank. He also makes them play "Another One Bites the Dust," during his funeral. Seriously, watch this show if you can. This guy faces his death straightforwardly, without self-pity or regret, despite the fact that he has endured excruciating pain on a daily basis throughout his entire life. Anyway, I figure that if he can suck it up and have some fun with his funeral, I can too. Sure, he knew his death was rapidly approaching. I will hopefully be sticking it out for another 70 years or so, but I could die unexpectedly tomorrow. Anyone could. I see no harm in being prepared.

Some might consider me to be morbid. It doesn't bother me, as I've heard it before. In 11th grade photography class, my black and whites almost exclusively featured either scenes from our local cemetery or Tate, my white-haired cousin who was the cutest little old man baby at that time. Eh, I've never been variety's biggest advocate. When I happen to run across them, I still think the tombstone pictures are kind of nifty. Terry and I have always threatened to plan our own funerals. (She expects invitations to be mailed; I'm not as fussy about the guest list.) I've been known to pose questions such as, "So if you were going to off yourself, would you pull a Sylvia Plath or a Virginia Woolf? Or would you go with a solid, yet overdone Hemmingway?" I like to tell stories about the slightly gruesome pictures we viewed in my college forensic science class. I can't definitively pinpoint my motivations for speaking so casually and cavalierly about death. It probably has something to do with the fact that I find death, and, more specifically, loss, to be profoundly saddening and somewhat terrifying. So maybe discussing it and pondering it and even joking about it forces me to acknowledge that it does and will happen to everyone. Juvenille? Potentially.

I'm certain that my desire to plan my own funeral stems from some highly self-involved and self-aggrandizing part of my psyche that desires to be remembered. But honestly, who doesn't? And I've attended far too many awkward funerals, at which the presiding minister never even met the deceased, some Bible verses are read, and not too much is said. Completely lacking in personalization and celebration of life. So, I am setting out to ensure that, once the time rolls around, my own funeral doesn't suck as much. (WARNING: If you already find this topic to be flippant or brooding or entirely devoid of reverence for the dead, and you are not so much a fan of such things, you should probably stop reading at this point.)

I have compiled a list of guidelines for how things better go down. Kindly direct my next of kin (whomever that may be at the time) to this list, in the instance that he/she is somehow unaware of what I want or too stubborn to comply. Peer pressure if you must, people!

1.) Kill me, if I'm more or less dead but not quite there yet. If I somehow suffer the misfortune of turning into a breathing vegetable with mush for brains, I best not be kept alive like that for any extended period of time. Whomever is in charging of making the call better heed this warning or prepare for a lifetime of ghastly hauntings once I finally am permitted to kick off. Seriously. The thought of "living" like that absolutely terrifies me.

2.) Once I am legitimatley dead, donate my organs. Let them take whatever is usable (if there is anything left unsoiled by the effects of nicotene or Dunkin Donuts addiction or any other vices I reserve the right to develop as life continues.) I do request that my body is not donated to science. I have read Stiff: The Curious Lives of Human Cadavers. (It's really quite an interesting read, by the way.) And I have no interest as serving as a disembodied head for some rookie nip/tucker's first face-lifting attempt or lying in wait for every ounce of flesh to drip off my bones on a body farm. I find the latter to be a venerable cause, as it helps CSIish folks out with determining decay rates and times of death and other handy things. It's just incredibly unglamorous. And stinky. And wormy. Since I despise worms and am not a huge fan of maggots, I'd rather not give them such easy access to my eye sockets.

3.) I don't really have much of a preference regarding whether my remains are cremated or buried. Neither strike me as an especially pleasurable experience, so whatever. Cremation is cheaper, so I hear. If whomever gets to make the choice goes down this route, I demand that no urns are involved. They creep me out, and the thought of my ashes being lugged around for generations (or more realistically speaking, accidentially dumped and hurridly vacuumed and discarded with the trash - it happens all the time on sitcoms) doesn't thrill me. Having my ashes spread over a beloved or beautiful place strikes me as a tad bit cliche and potentially not environmentally friendly. As the dirty smoker that I have grown to be, I am making significant enough contributions to the pollution problem in life, so I think I'd prefer not to in death. I do definitely need a headstone. They seem important from a historical aspect, so kids hundreds of years from now can make fun of our anachoristic names and revel in awe at our comparitively short life spans. So, I guess I'm thinking I should be buried, either in ashy or fleshy form.

4.) Speaking of headstones, I want a good quotation on mine. Something literary and not too cheesy. At the moment, I'm a fan of, ". . . and flights of angels sing thee to thy rest," Hamlet, V.ii.360. It is the last part of the last thing Horatio says to newly dead Hamlet. It must be properly cited, of course. Sure, maybe angels and "thee" and "thy" sound as though they might up the cheese factor, but my gut tells me that one just can't go wrong with Hamlet. Plus, I haven't come up with anything more fitting at this point in time.

5.) No hymns at the funeral! The exception to this rule is "Amazing Grace," as I quite like it, but only if bagpipers are involved. Actually I'd really enjoy a whole slew of bagpipers. The music is so haunting and gorgeous. Maybe I'll marry a bagpiper. And then we'll have little kilt-wearing babies. Then I can assure that this will play out. Otherwise, just make mixes of songs I've liked throughout my life for background filler.

6.) Schedule the talkers ahead of time. And I expect lots of them. By that point in time, there should be enough goofy stories about me to keep everyone entertained. I actually attended a funeral at which no family/friend speakers were designated prior to the event. And no one talked when the minister who didn't even know her asked if anyone would like to speak. It was awkward. And sad. So, if for some reason a whole brigade of talkers is not rounded up ahead of time, I expect that whomever is in charge will tape stars to the bottom of the chairs in a random fashion. Then the minister or emcee or whomever is up there with the microphone will have to tell everyone to look under their seats, as though they might be potential prize winners on Oprah, and stand up if they've been starred. Those people will then be required to speak on the spot. I'd rather not have to resort to that, but I will do what I have to do.

7.) Poetry readings are permitted and even encouraged, as long as said poetry is not comprised of the rhyming internet forward variety about loved ones turning into angels or now being responsible for rainbows, etc. If someone does feel compelled to write his/her own rhyming poetry, let em go for it. I won't be too critical at that point, I'm assuming.

8.) I think it'd be kind of neat to have a cover charge at the door. Five or ten bucks, maybe, to be donated to a charity that I like. One that helps teach little girls to love themselves would be nice. Of course, if people don't have the money to donate or think that is tacky, they should be permitted to enter regardless. (Though anyone who thinks asking for charitable donations is tacky might need to realign his/her priorities, in my opinion.)

9.) No black clothing, if it can be helped. It's a celebration, so the dress should be a bit more cheerful and casual. Of course, if someone only feels comfortable in black or is going through a goth stage and only owns black or doesn't get the memo and thinks black is the way to go, they should be allowed to attend anyway. Hmm . . . maybe invitations are a good idea, after all. The only true clothing request that I have is that the horse skirt is worn. Allison has generously promised to don it, as long as she is still kicking at that time. She acts as though she is doing me a big favor, but I know she secret covets it.

10.) Eat pizza at the after party. And have a couple of kegs handy.

Confessions

* I have been using air quotes way too frequently. I'll throw them into conversation, realize what I'm doing, and start mumbling about how I'm such a loser. I ususally just blame it on the brain tumor, which is a handy and fitting excuse for incidents involving falling down, running into walls, sober slurring of speech, eye rolling, rambling, dropping things, and inexplicably spastic behavior.

* I began writing an entry entitled "All Good Obsessions Must Come to an End or I've Got Issues, Yes I do, I've Got Issues, How 'Bout You?," after a dark day during which I had an accidential run-in with moldy turkey pepperoni. I was convinced that the mere sight of it would end turkey pepperoni's role as an almost daily diet staple for the past three years. Pepperoni loses enough appeal when one takes the time to consider that it is composed of bits and pieces of the junky, garbage meat that might not even be good enough for hot dogs, so I figured the fungus frosted version would be enough to put me over the edge. I started lamenting my loss, but the grieving period was short. I don't think I even lasted two days before buying another bag. I couldn't figure out what to eat in its absense. I am either less or more crazy than I had thought, depending on how you look at it.

* Reading the Elmira College Review makes me feel depressed. No joke. Maybe some of those people are liars . . . or at least embellishers. Maybe I am just a hopeless slacker.

* It'd be nice if brains came equipped with mute buttons.

* I am half convinced that the weather dictates my moods.

* I am highly embarrassed to admit this, but I secretly kind of like the new (well, recycled) legging trend. I have no explanation or excuse. Maybe some portion of my subconscious longs to be kindred spirits with Lindsay Lohan. God help me.

* In potentially even more disturbing news, I sometimes find myself thinking Taylor Hicks is all kinds of sexy.

* I am wondering if the reason I am so drawn to Hamlet is because we both suffer from the same fatal flaw - an inability to act. He capably grasps what he needs to do, yet agonizes over actually carrying through with it for forever and meets his demise as a result. He is crafty and intelligent and seemingly capable, but he is stuck . . . entrapped by his own mind, really. It has always seemed to be one the lamer tragic hero issues out there, but it's also more complicated and layered and realistic.

I'm a Loser, Baby

And here's why.

1.) I American Idol voted last night. A lot. Well, I made many attempts, anyway, during House and The Real World commercial breaks. Lots of busy signals. I try to claim to be a nonchalant viewer, but I think I have fallen prey to someone every single season who sucks me in and makes me worry about him to the extent of throwing down some votes when elimination appears to be looming. I guess I am easily guilted (even by short, man-tanning reality tv hosts), as I let Seacrest's chidings about how my complacency directly contributes to undeserved outings get to me. This season, though, I fear I am getting out of control. My Elliott love seems to know no bounds. I'm pretty sure I at least doubled my prior voting total from all of the past seasons combined in one night. I reek of over-investment. And I will throw shoes at my tv if he is voted out tonight.

2.) Speaking of The Real World, I somehow find myself to be a regular viewer for the first time since New Orleans, I think. I don't even watch it in the more practical, "I'll catch one of the 80 million reruns that is shown weekly," manner. Oh, no, I tune in every Tuesday at 10:00. I must be a masochist. First of all, it makes me feel old. Secondly, I think, on a subconscious level, I must be putting myself through it as penance for all of those "bitch crazy" drunken moments I forced upon my friends in college. Cause they've got an over the top, ridiculously emotional, issue-ridden girl bringing loads of drama to this season. She is always crying or hyperventilating or hating on men. It's more than a little unsettling to watch.

3.) Time reserved for the tanning bed seems to be officially replacing time formerly reserved for the gym. I was a consistent little worker outer for a quite a while, too.

4.) I let the Wal-Mart people cut my hair and (prepare yourself for the horror) wax my eyebrows. I was previously informed by some co-workers that getting hair cuts at Wal-Mart is for people who are so trashy that they are no longer permitted to enter real hair cutting establishments. I don't know, I guess I feel kind of let down. From the way they spoke, I expected to witness a parade of mullets and rat tails and spiral perms and poodle bangs. Unfortunately, the Wal-Mart cutting corral just didn't deliver, despite the fact that it was hopping with walk-ins. Anyway, I feel much greater levels of pity for the poor girl who had to focus her efforts on the crazy catterpillarish mess I left entirely untouched for 6 months than I do for myself for sinking to such a level.

5.) I am way too excited about alcoholic soda. (But, really, you should try it.)

6.) I can't seem to make it through a day without eating, at the very least, two fruit roll ups.

7.) I find myself stuck in a bit of a compulsive book-buying mode. Half.com is too damn tempting. And cheap. So I'm currently juggling 5 books. (They are, in no particular order, I'm Not the New Me, Bring Me Your Saddest Arizona, The Center of Winter, This Life She's Chosen, and The Glass Castle.) Needless to say, I'm not making tremendous dents in any of them. Of late, actually finishing a book feels like a major accomplishment. Very sad.

8.) I check a number of blogs daily. And away messages. And myspace profiles. And the superficial. When a computer isn't readily accessible, I even read celebrity-focused tabloidish magazines. It's as though I'm still in college, searching desperately for methods of procrastination, though I now have nothing left to avoid except for the books I am supposedly reading for fun. I fear my brain is slowly, but steadily turning to slush.

9.) I buy instant lottery tickets sometimes. (And by sometimes, I mean every time I get paid.)

10.) I can't sleep without Nick at Nite. I've grown far too accustomed to the background noise, and I don't trust any other channels for fear that I'll wake up at 3:00 a.m. to the sound of wacky infomercials that work their way into my dreams or, even worse, the buzzing rainbow screen that manages to sound more irritating and jarring than my alarm clock.

The Write Stuff

Over the weekend, I stumbled upon Jennifer Weiner's blog. I find the trend of established young writers maintaining blogs and websites to be interesting. It makes sense, as it serves as a way to keep fans updated and hopefully a venue to draw in potential readers. I guess I am intrigued by the everyday/personal nature of the author blogs (I found a few) that I visited. I guess I expected that they'd be more focused on bigger efforts (such as the ones that people actually pay to read), rather than the seemingly mundane stuff that everyone else and her mother is blogging about. It's kind of cool. I think both her blog and her website are rather entertaining, even though I've never read Jennifer Weiner's books. (I have seen In Her Shoes, though, and I think it's a lovely little film.) Her writing style is conversational, cute, and quirky. I appreciate her self-deprecating sense of humor and enthusiasm for reality television.

A few years ago, I was encouraged to read her first novel, Good in Bed, by multiple friends. Apparently, my pseudo-pretentious little brat persona shone through, and I refused, as I dismissively informed them that chick lit was not my style. The funniest thing is, I subsequently purchased and read Hungerpoint, which definitely deserves the same classification. The glossy, hot pink cover and slightly chubby, "lookin for lovin" protagonist both serve as dead giveaways. So, I nullified my entire argument with my spring break reading selection. If I were my friends, I would have laughed at me. Maybe I was adamantly opposed to reading Good in Bed because, judging by the title, I figured I wouldn't find the heroine relatable. Maybe I was just a moody snot, and the invitations to read the book fell consistently on bad days. Whatever the case, three years later, I am feeling a bit foolish.

While surfing around her site, I happened upon a page with tips for wannabe writers. It's practical, humorous, and refreshing. I especially enjoy step # 3: "Major in Liberal Arts (but not necessarily creative writing)." I am too often confronted with judgmentally posed questions/statements such as, "Why would you ever decide to major in just English?" or "What kind of decent job will you ever pick up with a degree in that?" and the oh so encouraging, "Well, that seems like a waste of money. My kid knows he/she better pick a serious major." And even when it's not directly stated, it's implied quite often. My response usually begins with me rambling in my haughty tone about how there are two different schools of thoughts concerning college majors; some prefer pre-professional routes and some favor the liberal arts. I tell them that many intellectuals prefer the latter, as it doesn't pigeonhole students, encourages them to think and reflect, and allows them to pursue a variety of worthy interests, blah, blah. Then I usually become defensive and explain that I intended to graduate with secondary ed certification, but spending an extra semester at a private college wasn't the most practical plan. (As if to say, "see, plain old English majors are sometimes practical, too!") I tell them that I would have had to attain a master's degree within a few years, anyway, and it is fairly easy to pick up certification at the same time. That was once the plan . . . Then I remember that it's almost two years post-graduation, and I'm nowhere near decisive enough or financially able to pursue my master's. And I'm not sure that I even want to teach and the thought of taking another slew of education classes is about as appealing as having my eyes gouged out. So then I start to wonder if maybe the critical parties' points hold some validity, and I feel defeated and panicky. At this point I shut my mouth, letting the mean people win.

Now, they will win no more. I will simple say in response to their inquisitions, "Kindly refer to www.jennfierweiner.com/forthewriters.htm. It is all a part of my long established master plan for penning books. Having already mastered many of her suggestions, all I need to do is care for a dog, go through a few nasty break-ups, and peruse some cereal box labels and Harlequin novels. I'm well on my way. Thanks for your concern. If you're nice, maybe I'll autograph a copy of my first publication for you." In all seriousness, I do think Jennifer presents an adequate and concise argument for liberal arts education. And I just might print it out and carry it with me, just in case. (And, no, I don't hold any real delusions of grandeur or expectations of supporting myself through writing. I'm average, at best, and much more skilled at writing about other people's writing than coming up with my own material. Plus, it is too often an arduous and draining process for me. It would be nice, though.)