It's snowing, but Emerson hasn't canceled classes yet. I'm inclined to think this means they probably won't, which makes finishing the last 60 pages of Pride and Prejudice imperative. Reading 19th Century stuff always puts me in a weird mood. I start talking like them in my head.
For example:
Mother, though it doth vext me much to inform you it appears there is a small creature dwelling on the interior of our domicile. For nearly a fortnight I have heard a peculiar scratching coming from within the wall.
Is it a bat, is it a mouse? I can't know, but it's cold outside and I'm a vegetarian. So I'm putting off calling the exterminator.
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