Westville is windows open to West Tenth Street between Bleecker and West Fourth, warmth and chatter and the smell of hotdogs on the grill. Last night Kat showed up pink and rosy, and then we were inside, with the warmth and the chatter and the smell of hotdogs on the grill. And the roasted beets and sweet walnuts, and the cauliflower and garlic, and the crispy skinny fries, and, yes, the hotdogs, and the peach pie and the chocolate-sandwich cookie. Altogether a winning celebration to the end of the first week of school, I heart school, remind me of this in six weeks when I’m moaning about how much I hate school. Classes are gonna be great, just great, and with luck I’ll get to add into that one about post-structuralist and modernist art. Wednesday, after cursing the subway all the way uptown, I arrived, wet from the rain, a couple of minutes late to the class already in full swing, and I had to make my way to the front row, the only place with seats open, whereupon I sat down and the professor said: “Stella.” And I stopped my bangles jangling and looked up, eyes wide, teeth biting lip, and quite possibly in that spot of silence a drop of rainwater dripped off my bangs, and then it turned out she was talking about Frank.

And I think I’m going to drop that one on Rousseau even though maybe a Rousseau class would be good for me, and maybe I should take the Rousseau class, but I just don’t want to take the Rousseau class. Oh, dammit, still, I don’t know, the thing is, I bet Rousseau has a lot to say about blogging.

But, yeah, it’s gonna be a great year, I can feel it, it is sixteen times good that I’m not a first-year any longer. And some of my professors are hot, and some of them are funny, and they all seem brilliant in their own crazy ways. And maybe this’ll be the year I get Derrida. Must repeat: theory is just a game, a game, a game.