Beware!

I'm not usually one to set off worldwide panic, but today, my friends, I just can't help myself.  Today is the Ides of March, and what kind of SJG would I be if I didn't remind you it's a day of caution, paranoia and worry -- or, if you're me, business as usual.  But today is special.  Today is set aside for aging English majors everywhere.  On this momentous day, anyone who ever wrote an essay on "Julius Caesar" must stand in the nearest town square, or, if you're me, the intersection of Kvetch and Whine, and regale passersby with tales of struggle and woe, in your best Shakespearean accent.

Today is a day to call up an estranged relative, and say, "You think you've had it bad?  Have you ever stayed up all night, trying to finish an essay entitled, 'Et Tu, Brute?' without lapsing into snarky puns and unfortunate humor, on account of extreme exhaustion?"  If that doesn't bring 'em around and get 'em to focus on someone else for a change , if this ingrate whose genetic makeup vaguely resembles yours doesn't share the sorrow and trials you've endured, back in the Dark Days before computers, when you wrote your nonsensical English papers on a typewriter, before spell check existed, then I'm sorry, people, they are not worthy of you.  Why are spending time trying to reconcile?  They never understood you anyway.  Move on.

And so, as you go about your personal Ides of March, please, try not to be too bitter about those lost years when you majored in English, while other kids were partying and forgetting to study for finals.  You don't want to end up sounding like this guy: "There's nothing in this world can make me joy: Life is as tedious as a twice-told tale/ Vexing the dull ear of a drowsy man; And bitter shame hath spoil'd the sweet world's taste that it yields nought but shame and bitterness."  But that's a whole other essay.