And then she gave up and went to bed.

There are worse endings.

And then she got up and there was family, and Mom spreading low-sugar marmalade on her whole-wheat pancakes, and Owen playing a game that went beep boop beep boop and she thought of Calvin and Hobbes and wished she could ever remember which strip that came from. And she mooshed her face with her hands like Play-Doh and tried to wake up.

And then she stopped writing about herself in the third person. Finally.

Diaryland's offering "gold memberships" now. They're only $3.50 a month so it's hard to say no. But I don't want banner ads for my diary. And I don't want a sitemeter, even if it is invisible. And I think Diaryland should offer some small amount of image hosting for everyone, so I'm not going to pay for it. So there.

I want it to be summer. I want tomorrow, as Enya says. Except I don't, really... tomorrow I go back home. I want my room (even though it's a mess because I packed up and left at 5 a.m. last week) and my housemates. I want things to be green. I want to wake up to an alarm rather than to a person, because when you tell an alarm you need a few more minutes it doesn't try to talk you out of it. I don't want the radio station (I thought I'd miss it, but I don't at all), and I certainly don't want to prep for the fundraiser, and I don't want to have to write my Emerson and Thoreau paper because I love them too much and whatever I write won't be good enough. And I don't want to take my Shakespeare midterm. But I want my home... my bed, my recliner, my music, my boys. And I certainly don't want today.

I hate leaving.