It is SPRING.

In a gesture of defiance, I have packed away my winter clothes, shoes, and down comforter. Take THAT, winter. Given the tendency of the Midwest to throw cold weather at you as late as June, this is certainly a dismally bad idea, but damn it felt good to tamp down that box lid over my winter coat.

Mark is still here with me in Bloomington, but will be leaving in about an hour and a half (hence my wakefulness at such an odd hour). The most inexpensive travel option was an all-day train ride from Indy to Chicago to Galesburg, departing at 6:50 a.m. To arrive at the Indy train station early enough to satisfy my nervousness, we have to leave here around 4, so we decided to stay up all night rather than try to get up so early. I'm on my second cup of coffee (rather large mug though) and feel quite good at the moment. How ironic that I'm pulling my first all-nighter of the term--semester, I mean--and haven't done a lick of school work since about 9 p.m. That certainly does not mean that my paper for 510 is complete (intro paragraph finished) or that my essay for 552 is complete either (not begun). I also do not have the faintest clue what to write about for my upcoming 560 assignment. I'm in the mood for everything except school work: cleaning, reading, sex, video games, eating, sleeping (well, not so much now), daydreaming. The list could go on.

I wish I could find a job in which I am paid handsomely to read books of my own choosing and then write about them. Not reviews, exactly, but just what the books made me think about. If I have an addiction, it is books. Can't stop buying them, can't stop reading them, to the point where I'm spending too much money and time on a pleasurable activity. Mom told me about a woman who spent a year reading some books (some certain list or other) and then wrote a book about it. That would pretty much be my dream job. Why couldn't that have been me?