So Much To Say, But Where To Begin? This is For Dolce Carina

An Open Letter to My Readers (which probably mostly means Cara and me):

So you notice that I haven't been blogging as much the past couple of days. It's because I'm busy, really busy, and it almost never lets up. And I work and work and feel as though I give all I have to my students and my work and my colleagues and making phone calls to biology candidates for what is apparently one of only several positions open in the nation, only no one really WANTS the job because the pay is so bad. And I give. And I give. And when I come home from work in the evening, I cry, often cry in the car on the way home. And I cry not out of pain or hurt or frustration, although there's that too, but I cry because I am so tired in every way imaginable. And I think during my brief, 13 mile commute, that I take care of everyone else and I wish, I wish, that just for 15 minutes after I get home, wish that for 15 minutes someone would take care of me. That's all I want--just 15 minutes of complete attention from someone else. I want to come home and have 5 minutes to tell someone else how my day was, and the next 5 I want someone to make me a cup of tea, and the last 5 could even be in complete, mutual, communal silence. This is what I want out of life. Is it asking so much? I just want to be taken care of for 15 minutes. I feel like I give all that I have mentally, emotionally, even physically to everyone else in my life. And I'd like to feel like there was someone to look in on me. And I'm not even talking about a mate or a "life partner," just a friend. But, of course, that doesn't happen, not here, not now. So I simply figure that I have to take care of myself the best that I can. And I try to do nurturing, nourishing things for myself each day. And if there's no one else to make the tea, then I come home and boil the water for myself.

Ok, so maybe this was just another rant. I seem to be full of rants these days--rants about books and the lies we've all been fed by feminism, by the establishment, whatever. There's really more I want to say. I want to write about books (I'm teaching The Hobbit right now!) and volunteer work and cookies (made almond cookies over the weekend!) and tea and insomnia and the ways we like to pretend that we have control over our lives, our selves, our bodies. Only all I seem to get to is these rants. I should take the time to write about more things that make me happy.