Regardless of the fact that 66% of my real friends think I'm staggeringly observant, this entry will be little more than this past week's normalities. Nothing observed, unless you count the days of the week and the birds outside my window.

I was sick this week.
My roommate had her wisdom teeth removed last weekend. I thought she was okay until she came rushing into the bathroom this morning to tell me how she'd memorized the lineage of Christ. Suffice it to say that waffles, German Shepherds, and opening doors were all an integral part of her delineation. I had second thoughts about her wellness.
My ticket for home is booked, and so, along with my friend Kelly (who, if you read my comments, you'll know as kb), I'll be arriving in little old Potsdam on the fourth of March (not to be confused with the Fifth of March, where we all dress up like Indians and shun tea).
But I must leave on the eleventh, which means I'll be missing two of my most lovely friends' birthdays. May we celebrate early, please?
I have had my head buried in Russian Literature for the past two weeks and, frankly, have grown tired of the name Lisaveta Sergionovich Dostoevsky Karamozov Ilyich, called Pavel Lisa Petrovich Roskonvich for short. American Literature has become my relaxant.
There are so many options for this summer I can't hardly wait to see what happens. Another one arose last evening that would entail me being home for the summer--would you mind terribly? I'm am grateful, though, for the peace which passes all understanding. I'm not the least bit anxious about my summer. Usually I'm not the least bit anxious to a fault, stumbling around with no purpose, waiting for something to surprise me with its perfection. But I've dutifully sent out my feelers (also called applications) and dutifully set in to rest. I'm completely confident.

Maybe to a fault.

But I'm happy. You can't fault that.