So while everyone else seems to be doing things fun and exciting and life-changing, I am snowed in my house in Connecticut with a serious case of writer's block and no desire to research jobs.

Upon leaving for break it was suggested to me to submit my final essay for my Negative Capability class for the Sherr Essay Prize. It needs a lot of work, especially the beginning. But I certainly could use a hundred dollars, so a few hours' editing shouldn't bother me.

I spent Wednesday and Thursday of this week back down in Allentown, and wandered aimlessly around Philly and talked to Greenpeace workers and ate falafel and sat in a coffee shop on South Street and read Justine and got cold and had a nice warm arm put around me and a nice glass of wine put in me. I cried upon having to come home. My face was gently wiped clean, and my mouth gently and compassionately kissed, and I drove silently through the cold night.

I am in love despite myself. He just interests me far too much. He is someone I want to figure out. I want him to lead me around and I want to be able to watch where he is taking me. I want to be more clever for him, and more independent for myself. I want to teach him things. I like when he tells me I am kind, and that my influence on him is positive. I like when he sings, and when he looks to me for recognition for the things he does well.

I am desperate for touch. I want his arm around me while I sleep. I want my head on his thigh while I read, or close my eyes after one beer too many, or while I sigh myself into comfort. I want to dance with him.

I want to write him letters.

It is hard to be up here alone.