So I must've offended some being, as after saying 'thank goodness' for my officemate not using our office, he showed up and nearly killed me with his fragrant self. So I wasted pretty much the entire week living like a nomad, travelling from place to place with all my textbooks strapped onto my back, looking for some non-toxic place to study in. At the risk of offending the same/another being, thank goodness for my department's office staff finally taking me seriously and re-assigning me to my very own scent-free space.* Now I can read Derrida to my heart's content. Oh, and do some work. Honestly, I only had to read a couple pages of Derrida for my literary theory grad course, but I loved him so much that I got my (librarian) man to check out Derrida's Of Grammatology for me to read just for fun. Some people get hung up on the fact that Derrida said deconstruction isn't definable. I say, who cares? When it gives rise to something such as the 'Decon jacket' by Barbara Í Gongini (a.k.a. 'all I want for Christmas'), every one should just be happy to know that it is (and isn't). It makes a lot more sense than postmodernism, at any rate.
*Notice I didn't use the term 'office'; I've been reassigned to a broom closet. Literally. I'm excited to get the walk through next week.