Thursday, November 6, 2008

I've always wanted to keep a record

Now, this seems a little negative, even for me, but I would love to have a list of the things that I absolutely can't stand.
I suppose that I could, you know... do things I like as well.
But for now.
I do not like:
I do not like them very much indeed!

Monday, November 3, 2008

Very. Tired. Girl.

I was born in the right age.

This morning I got up with the idea that my class was happening some time around noon. It didn't worry me that I couldn't put my finger on exactly what class that might happen to be or exactly when around the hour of 12 o'clock that I was supposed to be attending it. (I take the same bus to all stops and it only comes once an hour, so I knew which one to get on.) It didn't really seem necessary. Until, that is, I showed up at my first guess and met a dark, empty classroom.
Is this the classroom for my... Psych Discussion? I ask myself.
... Yes. I believe so.
When is your Psych discussion?
Noon. Ish. Maybe.
Oh yeah? Huh. Well.
What is a girl to do? My brain can't formulate another better answer to the question, and in any other age I would have had to sink down onto the cold cement, put my head in my hands and think. really. hard. until I was able to wake up and deal with the situation, probably missing my... um... class? this morning which I was *almost certain* meant that I wouldn't be getting that... one test back. From that... once class. That I... have this morning.
But no! I was not limited to my own sad spent brain power which would still be on strike for a few days after this weekend (oh man) I had the entire internet at my disposal.
And now it's time to get off the internet and go to my SOCIOLOGY discussion (praise Google!) and collect my Sociology Midterm! At 12:30, which is, indeed some time around the hour of noon, thank you very much.

Monday, October 27, 2008

Now, this is not very interesting.

Sherlock Holmes doesn't know how many planets are in our solar system, but he knows the minute difference between different cigarette ashes. Hmm.
And he's famous for his deductive reasoning, and most of us are not. Now, he's also fictional, but that is beside the point.
College (and school before college) teaches some very useless information. Or, at least information that will become so completely unuseful after college that it seems kind of... irresponsible to crowd our brains with it.
(Because yeah, we can store as many bits of knowledge as we want, I'm not arguing for limited memory storage but recall DOES get harder. That's about as fact-y as psych gets...)
I guess what I mean by all that babble is:
Scientific Calculator v Graphing Calculator v Calculator you get as a free gift from some finance based business. I know difference! I didn't think that was weird. But after going home and requesting to know where in the hell my scientific calculator had been stored and being met with blank stares and then three (yes, three) graphing calculators, I'm beginning to realize that it's not really standard. Standard knowledge, I mean.
And why would it be for a non-math profession? (And why on earth would one turn down a graphing calculator in favor of one that doesn't do as much? Precalculus tests- Also, why would someone spend a quarter on something when they could just plug it into their big shiny machine...)
So I think I'm going to try to forget it. Because this is not something that I need to know.

EDIT:: 4/28/09 "Also, why would someone spend a quarter on something when they could just plug it into their big shiny machine..." I just read that again. It didn't make any sense. At all.

Conclusion: I appear to have meant "Who would someone waste a quarter in college (10 weeks) on a class to teach them something that can be done by a calculator." Which does make sense.

Sunday, October 26, 2008


Saying your very first word aloud at 5 in the evening is such a weird feeling. Maybe that's why I almost make an effort not to go out into public on Sundays, just to have that jolt of oddness in my life every week.
I'm pretty sure that I developed the Sunday outfit: badly fitting jeans and this one old green shirt, because it's the one thing that transitions seamlessly from couch to grocery store and looks great with unwashed or brushed hair.
As I get older and refine this weekly ritual more the only things I can think that I'd like to change are, having a sunnier kitchen and living room to curl up in, and have an inside radio that picks up NPR without my having to work too hard at it.

Sunday, October 12, 2008

Funny little habit.

I've developed a habit, and it's gotten much stronger now that I on my own. I think I should preface this with a bit about my parents. They were never into being proper. They taught me right and wrong as best they could and when to say thank you and to keep my elbows off the table, but I took an interest in learning when to say "May I," and "whom" all by myself. I could have gone my entire life saying "Can I have that cookie," and it would not have bothered them at all.
I still refuse to put a napkin in my lap, which irks them slightly, but that is another story.
Back to the habit.
Now that I live nearly alone (with a mostly absent roommate with her own room) I find myself giving myself instructions.
"Now, you know you have to get up early in the morning. Not just early enough to get to class, mind you, but also to wash your hair. No excuses, it must be washed."
"Oh, I suppose you may listen to your ipod if it helps you fall asleep, but you know you really must stop relying on things like that. You're getting a bit old for security blankets you know."
It's as though I have an alternate personality that chimes in with good motherly advice, in a vaguely trans-Atlantic accent, that my mother would never actually give.
How strange.
I wonder if other people have imaginary nannies on their shoulders telling them to eat more broccoli instead of another piece of chocolate. Or maybe they just call it a conscience and don't feel the need to personify it with it's own specific accent.
"But you must stop dragging this whole blog-posting out just so you don't have to go to bed! Lights off! I mean it!"

Friday, September 19, 2008

Dad's Birthday

I forgot it. My mother reminded me a few days ago, don't forget your dad's birthday! It's on Thursday. And I did. I forgot. I'm bad with that stuff. Really really bad. Unbelievably bad. The curious thing here is that, who cares? He doesn't care. He's 8 ish and when was the last time he did anything for his birthday? Or wanted anything. It doesn't logical that I should call. I guess it's a social obligation that I need to conform to. And it's not one I like.

Thursday, August 21, 2008

I'm finding it very hard to write a decent blog post at jury duty. They all end up sounding preachy and slightly irritable. I'm wondering if this could possibly be the fact that it is nearly 2 and I have been in this room (which looks like a cross between a free clinic and an airport) since 8.

Why can't I be interesting right now? I don't know. Ask the Sacramento County Courthouse.

Tuesday, June 10, 2008

The Last Few Days

On Thursday, two days after Tuesday, which happens to be today, I will no longer be a freshman. Freshmen are a curious breed. They tend to giggle profusely and have a tendency to get in the way when there are important things to get done. This is not their fault, we were all freshmen, in High School, and some of us again, in college. They, as we did, will grow out of it.
What I marvel at now is the fact that I will never ever have to be a freshman again. I'll have to be new sometimes, a fresh person, but not a freshman, and being new isn't nearly so bad. It never lasts an entire year, certainly. Because you're a freshman until you're not any more, and you can't escape it until you're a sophomore.
It seems as though we've done it. Most of us, with few casualties.

Tuesday, May 13, 2008

Dear Lowly Student,

What is your source? What is it? Is it the Fire Sermon? The Elephant Jataka or some other more obscure Buddhist sutra? How do I know that the information that you are presenting is true?

Well, Professor, I don't actually know what my source is. I have been studying far eastern asian religion, and it's philosophy for several years now. I have been reading and watching and listening to information on Buddhism and India for as long as I have been able to. In fact, I feel as though I have a fairly comprehensive understanding of the teachings and, honestly, the religious experience of Buddhism. You are not my only source.
So, when I write an essay I am not going to justify everything with source materials, I will simply summarize, to the best of my understanding, the best answer to the question.


Perhaps you might draw on the fact that you are a PROFESSOR OF THIS STUFF. I think that you might have a good idea of whether or not I am right. So, instead of asking me what my sources are or picking at the sentence structure that I use, why not simply TELL ME THAT I'M WRONG? Thanks.

Wednesday, May 7, 2008

Write something, then

A combination of fine forces set out to work on me yesterday. The first was my Humanistic Psych class, a class which rarely has actual work, but often results in odd, insubstantial projects. For instance, this weekend I was supposed to have sex for world peace. I did not. This might be a shame, I'm not sure. But, the real point is that today he suggested that we "create something." I, after storming out of my room in a mostly unwarranted grumpy fit, decided to do that. I was going to create. But what?
I wrote a book.
Fine, I didn't write a book, but I did start one. It's no Ulysses, but I like it. I have no aspirations to greatness with this piece of work, it's a metamyth. It's a hero's journey, but I am thoroughly enjoying the process. Yesterday I wrote 2500 words. Guess how many words I wrote today? My great plans as I fell asleep about finding out how Elodie was going to find the temple in the woods and how the mother was going to remove herself from the narrative? Zero. I did not write a damn thing. And now, in bed, as I should be discovering exactly what Charles is going to say when he wakes up in the morning, I am writing a pointless, long over-due blog entry.
I guess it's better to write something.

Tuesday, April 15, 2008

Many days

It has been many days since I have had the desire to write. Even now I am not interested in this. There was a reunion concert for my old youth chorus. It was held at the Mondavi Center in Davis, which is big and beautiful on the inside, and much to my surprise we mostly filled it. Perhaps not sold out, but there were no large patches with no people, and when we, the alumni choir, performed, there was a huge amount of applause. Not that I do it for the applause or really for he audience at all, I do it to hear the melding of the different tones and to get to be part of a fourth or a second and have my whole body tingle with the beauty of the chords.
I really do miss it. Next year I should audition for the other acapella group on campus, and not screw up the audition.

Monday, March 31, 2008


Taking humanistic psychology, apparently I am supposed to ask myself "Who am I?" and then, after I answer myself, "Who am I really?" I, of course, have no idea who I am, at all let alone "really" but even before the class started I was writing in my red book of "Things that I have done" which is basically a list of reasons that I am an interesting person, in order to convince myself that I am, in fact, an interesting person some of the time. I started a new list this morning too, in the back of the book titled "Things I want to do." There are only two things on that list so far,
I want to have a jelly bean hunt on easter with my children.
I want to be able to guide a raft down the entire American.
The already finished stuff is much longer. My favorite one isn't really something I've done at all. Not really. When I was in first grade I accidentally walked in to the second grade classroom. They were so old, it seemed impossible that I would ever be that old. I am very excited and feel very accomplished to have lived through second grade.
I wonder if that is who I am. Someone who lived through the second grade. I imagine that that is definitely part of it.

Thursday, March 27, 2008

Dear Panama,

I am extremely honored by your letter written at Christmas. I do, absolutely, give a shit. I don't know why I just decided to blog my response to your four magnificent epistles. I think that it is just that I am in a typing/blogging mood. Also in a public, exposing, tell-all sort of mood.

But you're sad so much these days
I don't know what to do
So to try to cheer you up I tell you tales about the men I love
and how it's oh so very hard to choose (beat)
And you tell me that I'm flippant
like the children who put stickers on their binders
you tell them that they're wrong (beat)
Be like me and put them here
Believe me when I tell you that I'm right
My bedstand's built to last
Sometimes I wish that we could go
Back to how it was-
With sunny afternoons and ransom notes
(beat) Oh weren't we funny
With snowcones in abundance
When I had you to myself six hours a day
But now I'm here and you are there, my friend
The stalemate where you won't return my calls

Don't ask to by a lyricist, because the problem with lyrics is that they are never any good. Ever. But these ones came to me this morning, and they are about Tyler (obviously?) They start in the middle of a verse and end in the middle of another verse, but I think that you should probably write some music to go with them and finish it if you like. My vision is a cross between that Moldy Peaches song in Juno and
Which is by Ryan Fitzgerald, esteemed boyfriend of my estranged, S.A.D.-ed friend. But my vision is not necessarily reality.
I am refusing to miss anyone right now. Not Tyler or Chris or Andee or any of them, and to stay with the theme of not missing, I can't miss you either, not actively.
But luckily I have ample opportunity to think about ROADTRIP!! with WES!! which basically makes up for the missing thing. Speaking of which, I got the car! It is the love of my life at the moment, oh yes.
There. That one. In red, like the picture. It is a stick shift, but even with that extra persnickity-ness it is just about the sweetest, most good natured automobile I have ever encountered. And hopefully if my parents don't drive it too much between now and when I get home in June, it will still smell all clean and new-car-y.
I am happy. Straight, solid, happy. Which is surprising considering my standing with all of my old friends from home, but I have found that I just don't care about them at all any more.
The people in Santa Cruz are nicer and more interesting and much less likely to be cruel because I'm me. Apparently sometimes friends aren't really mean to you all the time. Did you know that? I didn't. It's really cool.
But I still don't know what I'm doing this summer. It's a mystery. I just know that I don't want to be in Sacramento for very long. I want to travel around the country and I want to work, but I don't really know when I want to travel or where I will live while I work at an, at this point, unknown job. Makes me long for summer camp.
That is all I can say right now, which seems a sad answer to your wonderful letters. Probably it has something to do with the fact that I can't draw fantastic things on them, or that I don't want to pour out all my weepy emotions into a public forum, even when I am, as I am now, in a public sort of mood.
Salud y amor y tiempo para disfrutarlo.

Ramblings on Eating, Wishing and Abusing Pain Medication (From the train yesterday)

It would be so easy to be addicted to pain pills, especially for me, who lives for the placebo aspect of things. If I believe in my heart that something works, it works. I have proven this scientifically enough for me. In middle school, at the tail end of my belief in witches and magic, serious or un-serious as that belief may have been I took on the practice of wishing. I would wish that Mr. Cortez would have a substitute for math that day, and when I seriously wished it it would happen. Almost always, and when it didn't work, well, I obviously forgot to wish, or I hadn't been thinking it hard enough, or maybe there was a greater plan intended for Mr Cortez that day. Actually! Wait! I'm glad he's here because I actually did my homework, which would be wasted on a substitute. Thank you, mysterious un-named but definitely not God power which remembered that fact even when I was busy wishing that Mister Tight-Pants would stay home with the sniffles today.
If I believed in wishes even as a reasonably aged child, it makes perfect sense that I would believe in pain pills now, despite the overwhelming evidence that they are fake fucking sugar pills from hell. My mouth hurts. My teeth throb and ache. And vicodin, good old oxycodone is supposed to remedy that. It is supposed to kill my pain. Kill it dead and send it into the ether or wherever it is that pain goes to die its slow silent death for at least four hours from point of swallowing, give or take twenty minutes for dissolving and working its way into my blood stream and up to my face and the gaping holes where my teeth should be.
I have faith in them. It seems as though the throbbing stops as soon as the big white horse pill disappears from sensation, gets dislodged from my throat and down into my various intestines.
As a child I was told that it takes four hours for food to make its way through the body. For some reason, probably the fact that I was a child, and one prone to fancy at that, I decided that that meant that food takes four hours to make it to the stomach.
This is a very long time, it seemed to me. Four hours, to a young child is an unimaginably long time to make the extremely sort journey to my stomach. How many compartments were there to traverse in the mean time? How many DMV waiting rooms of food processing was I subjecting my sandwich to? It would take me, well, less than a second to move my whole self the distance that the food had to go. Maybe... two feet? Understandably, the food is, by necessity, a lot smaller than I am, and therefore might find the distance more daunting, but even a snail, or a small turtle, both smaller than the sandwich in question and relatively slow moving creatures could move two feet in a manner of minutes, not hours.
But apart from the matter of time that it should take to get from mouth to stomach, the part that concerned me most was, after a few minutes I feel full. And I feel full, not in my brain where the chemical signals that measure food consumption lie, but in my stomach. After a big meal my belly pooches, my pants feel a little tighter, all in the area where I have been led to believe my stomach is located. How can this be? And so I decided, as a nice, believing child should, that my stomach was lying. There was no reason to believe that the Magic School Bus or another like-minded educational television program was misinformed or perhaps that I had misunderstood it myself. No. It was easier to believe that perhaps my mouth had sent a signal to my stomach, or whatever was growing in my midsection, that food was coming. Arrival time estimated: four hours. So you'd better expand in preparation for that. Oh, and let the girl know she's full, wile you're at it.
And so I lived with the idea that my stomach was a tricky liar for many many years. And I believe that the same area of my brain that came to that conclusion, that it was my own body and not the outside information that was lying, allows me to use and love placebos, particularly ones that I honestly believe are working. Say, vicodin. So, why are my teeth still throbbing with pain? Not only did I take a vicodin at six or so, and it being seven fifteen now, it should be in full effect, but I also took an eight hundred milligram ibuprofen twenty minutes ago. Double duty pain control! It should be wiped off the map! Gone to pain purgatory until nearly ten, or, by the ibuprofen standards three in the morning. Logically and medically, I should be pain free until bed time, at which time I will be home where my shiny new bottle of vidocin is, housed in my catch-all drawer next to the antibiotics which I refuse to take and various cigarette and gummi-worm wrappers from days past.
And in my book, which I have read enough of for the day, is a nice little prescription for twenty more! But I will not fill the prescription, not now and not ever. Not even if I finish the fifteen or so pills I have at home. Because I do not want to become addicted to anything. Ever. Particularly not pain pills. No. Not particularly. If I was going to be addicted to anything, I would want it to be pain pills. Clean, easy on the systems, relatively inexpensive. Not smelly like cigarettes or illegal and expensive like coke, or dirty and liable to ruin the life like meth or heroine. In fact, if I wanted an addiction, this is what I would pick.
The only problem I have with them is quite a big one, at least in terms of making pain pills my drug of choice. I do not really notice that they make me feel good. A little giddy, a little talkative and pleased with everything, certainly, but not all that noticeably. The only time I really remember enjoying myself on vicodin more than usual was when I had an ear infection and I called my mother. I talked to her for hours and told her a lot of the things that I would ordinarily keep private, like my concerns over a birth control prescription. A prescription that she did not know I had, or knew that I had any use for, though she may have suspected. I was never very secretive about my birth control. I kept it out on my bathroom counter, most of the time in a little fabric pouch, but sometimes not, and she cleaned my bathroom every week. With a serious boyfriend around all the time it seems suspect that she never noticed or drew any conclusions.
And that night I was feeling good. I was talking and laughing and being happier than I had been in days and days of being sick. But I think that was it. It was not the vicodin making me happy directly, it was simply the fact that it wakes me up a little, and takes away my pain. And for a very tired person in a great amount of bodily pain, having a burst of energy and no more pain is a happy day! That, my friend, is an exceptional night! So it seems pointless to become addicted to the stuff. When I'm not in pain, and pretty awake, it does me no good at all, except as a placebo.
And the effect of pain medication as placebo is a great one. It is taking away my pain! It is making all my pain go away! The pain of rejection from a good looking guy, the pain of a less than perfect grade on an assignment. The pain of a lonely night because everyone else found something to do and someone to do it with and I am too lazy, or too scared or too uncreative to come up with something like that. The pain of the look that one or the other roommates gives me when they realize that I will probably be in the same place when they get back.
The idea of a pill that takes pain away, particularly a really strong one like vicodin, that is very appealing. And for a girl who likes placebos...

Tuesday, March 25, 2008

Now this is strange

I just noticed something curious. Now, my parents and I don't really show affection. I don't know if this is my fault or theirs, but I am willing to assert that it's probably all of us. My mother's best friend has mentioned to me that mom is not very affectionate or touchy, and that she sees that in me too. But when I was a kid I personally put a stop to kissing my father goodbye. I was about 12 and I just said "no. I'm done with that." My parents are affectionate with each other of course. They kiss, mostly not in front of me, but I see it, certainly. But not with me, we just simply don't do that whole thing.
A few months ago I drove my father to the airport. When I dropped him off and gave him his bags, he gave me a hug before I left. I was oddly touched. It made my eyes tear up, or if not exactly tear up, but feel that tingling pinch behind my eyes that signals tears are coming.
Tonight, and right now as I type this my eyes did the twinge thing again, before she went upstairs to bed, mom came over and hugged me, even though she was probably going to see me in the morning before I went back to school anyway. That time I seriously almost cried. And I don't know why. I am so independent and they know that, that I don't need their emotional support and I don't expect it. But for some reason these hugs have been really touching me. It's strange. For me, it's strange.

Tired non-vicodin induced rambling

My mouth hurts and that makes me tired. I had my wisdom teeth out on Friday and it was an extremely tiring experience, to the point that I still basically just want to sit around and not do much. The only thing that makes me feel any better is swishing lots of cool water over my poor aching gums and cupping my cheeks in my hands. Oh, and lots of vicodin. Actually, if I keep the pain meds going I don't need the water or the cheek cupping, but eventually I need to stop taking the pills every 4 hours. It's a daunting prospect, but I haven't had one since 1 and it's 8. 8 hours of managing pain on my very own. And it's ok! It really is!
Today I did manage to get out, though. Out of bed and out into the world and looking just a bit better than a "hot mess." To quote all of the girls on Flavor of Love 3 which I wish I didn't watch, but I do. But yes, I did get out today. I shopped a little and went to the Coffee Garden where I ran in to Terry. And the Co-Op, I went there too.
And the reason that I decided to venture instead of simply holing up and not, was that I have a spectacular new car! It's red and pretty and it has a great stereo in it. And when I hit the button on my fancy new key it goes "Beep!" or ever 'Beep! Beep!" depending on whether I'm locking it or not. I love it! Even if it stalls and makes me scared that I am going to be the most hated driver in Sacramento. Because if I was sitting at a stoplight because some stupid girl in her brand new red car couldn't work her stick shift, I'd be pissed too.
So sorry, drivers of Sacramento. Eventually I will figure it out with the shifting and the starting, and I will get plates so I look like less of an ass if I do stall. Sorry very much.

Sunday, March 2, 2008

Thursday, February 21, 2008


Now... it seems to me that there should be no reason for a vending machine to not take a quarter. A dollar bill? Certainly, if it's wet or old and dirty or all smushed up into a lump. But a quarter is just a quarter. It's metal, it weighs the same as every quarter ever, and if it gets dirty, it doesn't really matter.
So when the vending machine spit out my quarter over and over again, needless to say, I was befuddled. Why would it do that? What is the purpose of just... dropping it down the slot, back to me. Just take it! Take the quarter. Please.
And, in the end, regardless of the fact that there is not reason not to take my perfectly normal, even shiny looking quarter, fresh out of my pocket, the machine would not recognize that I had more than a dollar.
So, I did not get gummi worms at 1 in the morning, and instead I got skittles.
And maybe that is why the machine refused to take my quarter, because skittles are better anyway.

Sunday, February 17, 2008

Lazy Sunday, Reasons why I can't write an essay.

I would like to be writing an essay right now, on Nietzsche and his ideas about self and society, but I do not have any real idea what his ideas were on anything, let alone the high flying topoics that I am supposed to analyze. "What are his opinions on human nature?" I don't even know my own opinions on human nature, how am I supposed to judge his, based on less than 60 pages of writing. This writing that I have was only from one period of his life, what if he changed his views? What of, after he saw the horse beaten and went insane, he decided that all of his views were wrong. What if he realized that the slave mentality was not a result of ressontemant, but was actually a god-given assignment of values. What if the fact that Nietzsche believed that God was dead and that we killed him was actually a conscious joke that God played on him, and once he went crazy, Nietzsche understood that and the two had a good laugh about it?
Not that I actually believe any of those things. In fact, about most of the tings I have read, I think Nietzsche was completely right, and brilliant for saying the things that he did. However, it does not make writing an essay any easier. How can I make an argument about anything that he said. There is no basis for research other than, 'He said, but I think," and that just feels wring. I guess I can do, "He says but Marx says," but I don't want to do that either.

Saturday, February 16, 2008


It is time to stop being an elitist. People do not need to be perfect, I certainly am not. If removing myself step by step from the mindset of everyone needing to be perfect, and exactly to my standards means losing all of my friends at home, so be it. It is definitely time to move on.
All of the amazing people at Santa Cruz have changed my mind about all of the judging that has been going on in my life. That guy I used to work with was right, I do want to say,
"Stop judging, you judging judger!"
Why all this hate anyway? I could never be friends with Cameron, because he smokes! And that makes him bad! Can't take Jessica seriously because she listens to R&B music. Caitlin went to Waldorf school. She's probably to weird to handle, right?
I don't understand it anymore. Where did all this come from? I know, through my many hours of careful self analysis that there are so many things that are wrong with me, I am in no place to be calling anyone out on anything. Life is so uninteresting if everyone has the same flaws that I do. I know what that is about. I think it will be much more fun to find out about everybody else's.

This morning

The sky is blue, what I can see of it through the slats in the blinds over the little window off the rec room. It is 8:30 on a Saturday morning. I would be surprised to be awake and about this early, except for the fact that I have been in this dreary room since 7. The novelty has worn off.
This is a marvelous time to be awake. The whole campus is sleeping, and it is perfectly brisk outside. When I walked, slightly too quickly from Sam's room this morning, in an attempt to get home and sleep for several more hours, I noticed that the sky was like a watercolor. This is interesting by itself, but the part that really struck me was that the watercolor began right at the edge of the field, and unless my memory escapes me, there is a whole city after that field, and then a bay and after that a peninsula. So it was not merely pink and purple strokes in the morning sky, that was genuine cotton candy fog.
I do not like sleeping in beds that do not belong to me. It doesn't have to be anything special, but for me to get a good night's sleep I need to be the primary owner of the bed. I need the autonomy to roll over and to get comfortable any way that I can. And I need to be allowed to throw off the covers or wrap them entirely around my body, or, failing that, huddle next to the nice cool wall to regulate my body temperature back down to something below boiling.
I guess, the point that I am trying to make here, at 8:30 in the morning, in the dirty, dark room off the grungy little rec room is that I did not get a good night's sleep, or really a night's sleep at all, and that I really wish I had. Because this morning was beautiful, but if I could trade the sight of it for 5 hours in my nice cool sheets, I definitely would. And if there was a way of getting into my building without keys when everyone is asleep, well, I would do that too.