entropy (it always increases)

Outside it is snowing and I write by the wan light only a dorm room can offer and the drone of a tired vacuum hums in the halls and for every reason I should be absolutely destroyed. Winter is back.

Instead I am leaping about the small carpet space, fluttering between desk and closet, bookshelf and bed. I typed the final work cited on a research paper, studied enthusiastically (enthusiastically!) for physics. I sang along with Earth Wind & Fire, I hummed to Chinese rap. I ate an apple while sitting lazily against my metal bed post, reading aloud my finished paper in a British accent. And suddenly, in that moment of long "a" and r'ed "idea," I remembered what this is: it's me! I'm back! I'm talking to myself in a British accent, an accent culled from years of Austen and mornings of Charlie & Lola, an accent that can only mean I am at complete peace with myself. I am happy! Ridiculously happy! And entirely out of my mind! Huzzah, huzzah, huzzah!

I remember something Mrs. Slighting always said, something about low air pressure brought on by bad weather brings out the silliness in young children. Ha. I don't know about that exactly, but I am rather silly at the moment. Especially when you consider the snow.

I am basking in the randomness of today.

And you know what? You're right. Blogging is insanely self-centered and does no good for the outside world. But . . . it makes me happy. And I love the easy-access of it, the instant gratification of seeing your words in "print." And though I may have nothing of great importance to say, or unbelievable wisdom with which to grace this world, there are some moments where a ruled journal page just doesn't do it. And you are left with this, wasting another five minutes of your life, wondering what in the world you're ever to do with me.