Like many unemployed 22-year-olds who happen to be convenient uncles, people don’t understand my limits. Especially my nephews and nieces: until such time that I have a source of income, I can’t give away aguinaldo.
And like many convenient uncles, I kind of feel that children are too smart in Math. Even a four-year-old kid would know the value of twenty pesos: nowadays, your nephews will kick you in the shins and your nieces will wail like banshees for anything less than two one-hundred peso bills.
It’s not like I’m complaining, though.
Of course I am.
Merry Christmas, monkeys.
Now that I’m officially off thesis-mode, I’ve been meaning to read books outside of academic requirements. Christmas is a good time for leisurely reading, after all. For all intents and purposes of admission, I’m still pretty much stuck in reading academic texts: I suppose I have to learn to read comic books again (like Batman), or that I should head off to Book Sale for stuff people throw away.
As of late, I’ve been doing self-study on the work of Gilles Deleuze and Félix Guattari, if only because I want to familiarize myself more with a great part of the philosophical foundation of my thesis. I finished skimming over “Anti-Oedipus,” and I’m halfway done skimming over “A Thousand Plateaus.” Then I’m planning to cap off Christmas reading the last three chapters of “Of Grammatology” by Jacques Derrida (before I abandoned it in favor of Deleuze).
Of course, it’s inanity bordering on insanity to read philosophical texts for “leisurely reading:” a kind of self-evident, self-validating thing that reinforces common stereotypes about me. There are a few books I’ve been meaning to read, like Haruki Murakami’s “Dance Dance Dance,” and I’ve been meaning to read more on the irreverent atheism of Christopher Hitchens. But I’m a big fan of the classics: I’m going on a bargain bookstore raid in a couple of days to look for William Faulkner.