Research is hardly work for the verbose, except that I have not been afforded the use of a graduate assistant to copy down passages that are useful for my notes. I am long awaiting such a day, but while I am juggling a life of showering in the teachers’ dormitory and wandering the streets in the evening looking for cheap housing, I am forced to take my own precious notes and spend my own time pouring over tomes of events not related to my current field. The professor of Post-Civil War history, Jonathon Gromley, a once dear friend, has been kind enough to take me under his wing at Dean Duncan’s behest. Duncan, having moved me to a purely research position, had Gromley ask me to do his research personally.
Johnathon is a wonderful man, to whom I owe much. He helped me secure my position here, and has stole me away into the dorms so that I can remain clean and presentable. He even allows me to do my laundry with his. I am more indebted to him than any other man on the planet, and if I am able to pay him back in recompense, I shall.
Pardon these ruined and blotchy pages. I am losing my composure and crying as I write this. All the stress of living out of my office, and the awkwardness it creates amongst my colleagues is too much to bear for any man. I am shamed, and I am worked to the bone. I have only managed to secure this small fraction of time to write now, as I have been given a day off to sort out personal affairs before the semester ends. I fear I will not be employed here after May, and am so uncertain of the future. No nightmare compares with the fear of the future I harbor in these cold days.