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I’m not going to meet one of my goals for this year.  Not by a long shot.  It is irking me something fierce at the moment because, with less than a month left before we head into 2012 (and its cataclysms and such), there is simply no way that I even a concerted effort will put things right.

This is mostly my sister-in-law’s fault.  She read over one hundred books last year and I got jealous.  In my book journal (yes, I keep a book journal, like some myopic spinster shut-in), I wrote down the goal of reading a measly sixty books this year.  I figured with so much stuff to read for my Masters (and those books count), I would easily hit this mark.  And the math seemed to back me up:

If I assume that each book I read is, on average, three-hundred-fifty pages long, I get this:

Sixty pages each day.  Nothing.  Play suitable for an infant.

But, by mid-summer, I had already fallen off the pace.  I tried to catch up – I really did – but now it is December, I only have forty books read, and my wife tells me that it would be bad for my career to take a sabbatical to read non-stop from here until New Years Eve.  I think that my boss would understand if I showed him my book journal.