I’m behind on Infinite Summer‘s schedule, you know, the one that keeps me in check with thousands of strangers as we all sweat through David Foster Wallace together in a sick, modern mind race designed to pit my brain, but mostly my biceps and free time, against others in the pursuit of intellectual, and might I had worthless, achievement. It’s sad—we know it’s sad. And it’s working on all of us, all of the great lit-like-minded kids that drag it along with them like a dead body or a hostage. I’m behind, and it doesn’t matter, because there are too many fucking end notes to my personal life, too many characters and plot devices and acronyms that I’ve lost track of. So, for what it’s worth, I’ll finish it. But I’ll be damned if I don’t enjoy myself along the way.