In which Helen once again rants...but there's a hot picture of Daniel Craig...that has nothing to do with my post

I should have taken off a year from school.

I should have stayed at the library doing meaningless work, with no real obligations. I could read what I want. Check out people's books. Do what I want before and after work.

I love London. I love studying the people. I love going to shows and watching British t.v. but in many ways it is not a compensation for this stuff I have to read for class and these two essays that I'm going to have to write. And the fact that I'm alone.

I hate that every week I get inundated with things to read. No real time to just focus on something. And that is what I love. Getting immersed in what I read. Exploring it from every angle. But I can't when I'm giving parts of essays to read and a novel that I have no time to finish. And then in class nothing is discovered as the students rattle on about everything and nothing.

But I know I would be miserable at home too. I don't think I can let myself be happy. It is always something for me to worry about. What if I don't get into grad school? What if I don't go back to London? What if I don't know what to write about? What if I'm a charlatan, not really cut out for this job?

And really -- truthfully -- I just want to be lazy. I just want to watch tv and go to shows and hang out with people and read what I want. When I go home to America in a month, I really really really really don't want to have to write two 4,000 word papers. I mean, I really really don't. Even if it is on something that I'm interested in.

I just want to live carelessly. Live without obligation. (But life is not so easy -- yes I know).

This is something new. I've always loved school and writing essays before the deadline and whatever else -- and working -- and having a busy life. But now it seems so useless, so meaningless, so filling in the time until something else happens. Maybe it's being in a country where the people aren't so competitive as Americans. Where a good bottle of wine is enough to get crazy over. Where work doesn't really matter so much as walking in the city, spending time with friends at the pub.

Nothing anyone say's will make me feel better about this. Well there are possibly two people who feel the same who are not so stupid as to reply -- "Oh, you should just be happy where you are...you'll get through it..." (I'm difficult).

It is this strange, new anxiety I have. Nothing makes sense. I just know I'm anxious and feel so guilty that I'm in this great city and am so loathing the reason why I'm here.

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However, tonight I took a walk along the bank of the river. It is in the upper 50's. Warmer than it has been lately. It was perfect, with Big Ben lit across the Westminster Bridge that I crossed. Walked up toward Trafalgar Square, through the Strand. Stopped at Waterstones, where I looked at all the books I wish I owned, and then wished that I had time to read. Bought a Hardy book that I have to give a presentation on in two weeks. How loathesome it is to have to read a book b/c you have to give a presentation on it. I feel that's not how it should be. I wish I could be like my former self and just say -- you have to do what you have to do -- but I've become angsty and rebellious against that creed.

Shit, I have to get back to reading Wuthering Heights for class. (Not even for class really because the books I am writing for the essay are mostly ones not put on the Syllabus but, anyhow, will be much more interesting...).