a review of everything

I just read all my blog posts, because I had nothing else I wanted to do. It made me feel better. I haven't felt like myself this week. And I'm not sure there is any particular reason for it, that's just how I've felt lately. And now I'm going home for Thanksgiving, and sometimes when I go home I feel less like myself than I even do now. I'm glad that I write things down. I can tell when I was writing something because I had to put some truth on paper, and when I was writing to try to find myself again. Does anyone else feel this way? I suppose that's partly what I'm doing right now. At ten o'clock in the morning. Rather uncharacteristic of me. I've written jokingly before about how I'm not a morning person. I've written comical stories about alarm clocks and snooze buttons, but the truth is, I wake up to silence and an empty apartment, and the only person around to pull me out of sleep is myself. It is simply uninteresting. I live for the night. I live for having no assignments left to finish, and enjoying a respite with my favorite people. Not all of my actions or plans are entirely deliberate, but it is likely that if I spend time with you it is because I enjoy your company very much. Afterward I go home alone, and I put myself to bed. But sometimes I write something first. Because it helps me hear my own voice when I have the luxury (and the curse) of hearing no one else late at night. It's strange to read my journal sometimes, to hear my own voice. Even more strange, I almost perfectly follow a pattern of one entry written late at night to relieve some stress or despair that won't leave me long enough to sleep, followed by another entry written in bliss. Though, I suppose that since I don't write as much as I used to (something I'd like to change), at least I do write quality. And it would make sense that I only have been writing when I'm experiencing one extreme emotion or the other, instead of just stringing words together when nothing particularly exciting is going on. What is unfortunate is that long after I am gone, someone might find my journals and think I was totally off the hook for about ten pages, and then fine for thirty. Fortunately, no historian would probably ever be interested in my journal because it is more introspective than anything, though I used to worry a lot (and quite seriously) about the consumer culture and the possibility of depleting the fresh water supply. So when the fresh water supply does deplete and I go live on a boat in the lake, I can always tell people that I knew it was coming and had a plan. Or maybe I'll just grow gills and live in the ocean like Kevin Costner in Water World. Only, I won't be able to write, because I imagine it would be difficult while swimming around in the ocean. I think it is now time to go out into today.

water, where art thou?

This morning the water at the beach has been turned off until noon, which meant that I had to wake up far sooner than I would have liked in order to take a shower. I'm debating whether to skip class and just leave now for Thanksgiving, because I'm sure there will be plenty of traffic at 4pm. I felt like I had something to say but now I forget what it was.

i look out my window

It's snowing.