I was quite proud of myself yesterday morning. I actually showed up to my 8:30 AM Latin class fifteen minutes early. Alfred Hall was silent as I traipsed my way up to the fourth floor and settled into my usual seat in room 45. I waited a bit, did the necessary tuneless whistling (required of all people waiting alone in any place, ever), ran through the pen-tapping routine, and then idly filled out a few index cards of declensions and verb infixes, because I can barely remember how old I am, let alone what the plural genitive case ending is of the Latin word for brother.

Father Paul-Alexander came in at about twenty past. I think he didn't even notice me at first. It would make sense, really. Terry Pratchett, the British fantasy satirist, has a theory which states people are unable to see what simply cannot be there. Sort of a defense mechanism, you might say, and me being early on a Monday morning for Latin would definitely qualify as an impossibility. Imbibo ergo sum, what can I say?

Except, alas, my Sunday night was not drowned in the cups. I cannot really ever claim excessive intoxication as a reason for being late to class, as I am Not That Guy. (Belief of previous statement is not mandatory.) No, I in fact passed out at about 7 PM Sunday night due to not having slept for something like 32 hours, 16 of which were spent outside at work in what was essentially Dante's version of the last circle of Hell. (Colder than a woman's heart, as the Mainers back home say...ayut, deah, that'saright bub.) The remainder of my weekend was, shamefully, spent lost within the digital World of Warcraft.

Yes, my addiction continues. It's rather amusing, actually, since I somehow seem to be focusing better on my schoolwork than I was last semester, even while locked into a game. I think it's because I'm playing a Priest...perhaps God favors me for such a choice. Everyone in the MMO community knows it takes a special kind of masochist to play a healing class. Healers do not do damage. Healers do not, like, wave swords, and make stuff blow up. Clearly, therefore, healers are Not Awesome.

Except such logic is flawed! My Priest smites faces. Yes, that's rght: smites faces. Smite, smite, smite-ety smite smite. I am a vehicle for the wrath of God. My tires spin in the face of sin (unless sin is more than four levels higher than me, in which case my tires retreat in the opposite direction with great alacrity)! Until I run out of mana, anyway, and have to sit for something like fourteen days to regenerate it. I have found this interim useful for studying, since there's nothing else to do. (Except for plot who to smite next, of course.) 

So, while my character is resting, I do math problems for Elementary Functions, recite lines of the Aeneid in an attempt (most likely futile) to commit it to memory, and peruse chunks of the Bible for Exploring Religious Meaning. Invariably, my group chat in the game occasionally slips into a discussion of whatever scholarly matter I am currently sidetracked with, and I typically hear, "zomgz d00d r u a stoodent or summink? OMG HEAL HEAL I'MA TAKIN DAMAGE HEALHEALHEAL!!!1!!1! i'ma ded, rez plz."

You'd have to play to understand, trust me.

Anyway, it just goes to show: World of Warcraft and Saint Vincent can co-exist, at least in my peculiar mind...for the moment. We shall see if the status quo can be maintained once, say, my Functions class moves past inequalities and into stuff I don't know. (Such as, uh...everything else to do with math, ever.)

Stay tuned for more geektastic updates from my little nerdland.