This is how I spend most of my Saturdays. Lounging on my bed surrounded by my textbooks, half-filled notebooks and checklists. Wordsworth, Yeats, Coleridge, Weston, Shaw, Conrad… and that random German text. Usually I’ve got a fist full of pens pinned beneath my leg and a mug of hot chocolate beside me. I slip into different worlds at will, lost in a flurry of black ink on creamy pages, underlines and notations, and soft music. These are the hours I feel like a legitimate English major; while my friends and peers are studying a myriad of subjects, ranging from a foreign language to philosophy of religion and mathematics. I swing between British Literature and Modern British Literature, travel across Britain, Scotland and Ireland, occasionally venturing into Wales. I devour poetry and prose, a lovely mess of manifestos and fantastic prefaces, authors notes and biographies. It’s cozy and familiar and startlingly new at the same time. I love it so.