Dear quiet night at home,
I know that you occured in part because the historian has a cold and needs his rest, and also because there is an irresistible trifle of a novel that basically demanded to be finished, and also because there was leftover shrimp Vindaloo as well as leftover tortilla soup. And also because I have a powerful ability to procrastinate necessary tasks, such as grading. Even so, quiet night at home, how delightful, how restorative you have been. You have been the very fulfillment of a Tuesday, distilled to its quintessence. I cherish you.
Dear trifle of a novel,
How I adore you. You have, by virtue of your occasionally tart wit but also your surprisingly open-hearted address to the need of the reader to believe, at least sometimes, in happiness, entirely satisfied me. I know you are not brilliant, but you are good, for a trifle. In fact, dear trifle of a novel, you have caused me to brighten the aura surrounding the word "trifle." That's how entirely satisfactory you were.
Ugh, are you still there?
I am sorry, but we will never be friends.
I said good day,
You are when I will grade.