Still fifth-week blues, omg.

Oh my god why is it still fifth week. I am nursing a private theory that the moment it is not fifth week any more, everything will be sweetness and light once more. And to be fair, everything is sweetness and light bar economics and that's a big bar. Pat asked last night why I hate economics so much. I had to think about it for a long, long time. "I hate maths," I said, after a bit; but that's not exactly true. I hate applied maths, ie, economics. I was proud of myself when I learned how to differentiate and integrate, and the derivation of differentiation from first principles is something I took the time to learn as being a beautiful piece of logic in its own right. While I will never be particularly enamoured of maths - and some time ago clareyperson said, in reply to that, "It's 'cause you treat it like a whore!" - I do see why some people find joy in it. It can be joyful.

Maybe, I went on to say, I hate economics because I don't really care all that much about resource allocation. But, well, that's not true either. Caring about resource allocation is a pretty important part of having political beliefs of most sorts, and I do have those, and find joy in having them too. So it's not that, and I spent quite a long time thinking before my next attempt.

"Maybe it's because I hate Forder."

"That's okay," Pat said, "everyone hates Forder. Which is also okay, because he hates us all right back."

Urgh, Forder. I hate him, and am exemplifying my hatred by not calling him by his first name (it's James) like all my wonderful, wonderful General Philosophy tutors. The reason I hate him is actually quite simple; he's got this crack-addled theory that introductory textbooks are a bad idea. He thinks they are condescending and patronising and that we should all be reading Keynes instead. My point, which I think is legitimate, is that introductory textbooks serve a purpose when you know nothing whatsoever about a subject. Even if Keynes wrote at all lucidly (I complained at Forder on Monday that the man should have been strung up for cruelty to the common comma), I still wouldn't understand a word without a little preparatory reading of the difference-between-fiscal-and-monetary-policy school.

Still. Two tutes tomorrow, one Political Theory and the other Macro, and there's only twenty minutes in between them that I plan to spend crying in a corner. It will be hideous and awful, and followed by an evening of reading Mill, because apparently he chose On Liberty to start getting verbose. I wanted to go out and meet ou3fs, but I rather think Mill will intervene. In conclusion, fifth-week blues are just hideous (and, hilariously, a comprehensively documented phenomenon), but I'm hoping to ride them out. I want to do something fannish to take my mind off it, but my remix has stalled and I have no energy to do any other writing. The one thing that appeals at present is The Vagina Monologues at Wadham at the end of sixth week. Anyone feel like coming with me, she asks tremulously.

Dinnertime, then Mill. Waaaaah.