September 3, 11:04 p.m.

Hello, Notebook. Looks like itís just you and me again. My roommate, Josh Moore, whoever the person behind the name was, didnít show up. Solo again in the concrete box. At least all the shelf space is mine. God knows Iíll need it. Iím required to buy almost five hundred dollars worth of books, between all my class books and my required reading. Majoring in liberal arts is turning out to be rather expensive, especially when one considers that I have yet to sell a single sentence of my workÖmuch less the Beast (as I have taken to calling the novel). But no, I will not be discouraged. So what if there are no jobs for people with Liberal Arts degrees? So what if itís damn near impossible to become an outrageously wealthy or even just well-known fantasy writer? So what if I end up asking people if they want fries with that for the rest of my life?

Okay, okay, enough. Iím doing what I love and not half the people in the world are lucky enough to be able to say that.

Oh, say, I almost forgot. English Lit. Remember the class I wasnít going to take until I had to? Well, this year I had to. Iíve been dragged kicking and screaming back to the Beowulf I so despised in high school (not to mention "Whan that Aprill, with his shoures soote") by my trusty advisorÖbut I donít think itís going to be as painful this time around. Professor Doug Taylor, our fearless leader, seems like a pretty weird cat. Laid-back, ex-hippie kind of weird. I like the man already.

The class is packed to the ceiling with freshmen. The only other person I even remotely recognize is, of all people, last fallís Lady Macbeth. I donít even know her real name; I just know she had the audience in fits with her sleepwalking number. I sort of wish I hadnít burned the program, but I had gone to the play with Karen, and of course, we know what I did to all my reminders of her. Ah, the sensitive soul of my inner poet is capable of such mature reactionsÖ

--Chris

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