Summer is here, which means I have the most spoiled dog on the planet who gets to go everywhere with me, including bars, including cafes, including the grocery store.
There’s a huge park near my house where we can go to have some privacy away from all the cooing strangers who want to know what kind of dog that is and if the cutie will get any bigger and is it ok if they pick her up and squeeze her and omg how do they get her to stop biting. This park is hilly and lined with trees and we hardly ever get bothered.
I figured out a way to tether the end of her leash to the ground with a piece of hanger, so I can lie on the grass and read while she runs around. We come home so exhausted from the sun she barely makes it in the front door before she collapses.

So far my summer reading is slacking. Yesterday I finally read The Catcher in the Rye, which I have been meaning to do since I was thirteen, but somehow never got around to it. Afterward I was thinking that that book is sort of a mirror of itself: there’s the encounter with the old crotchety professor in the beginning and the young sleazy one a the end; there’s the fight with the roommate in the dorm before the argument with the old schoolmate at the bar; etc. etc. Like if you folded the book in half, each side would fit together exactly, and therefore at some point during Holden’s weekend there must be a perfect center, the apex of his adventures, and I guess that would be when he meets the nuns in the diner and gives them ten bucks. There is a lot more kindness in that book than I expected.

So the plan is to spend the summer working through my I-Should-Have-Read-This-A-Long-Time-Ago List of Books, such as Crime and Punishment and Fahrenheit 451, which will hopefully relieve this great burden of literary guilt I have weighing on my conscience every time I stand in front of a classroom to teach English.

All right, all right. More later. Love and things.

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