There's a peculiar sort of enmity, I've decided, that belongs only to the final pages of a very long novel. Reading, and finishing, The Amazing Adventures of Kavalier and Clay this very afternoon, I was very frustrated with the ability of the book to keep going -"great American novel" refers to quality, not size, or should.

I had an odd sense of victory for those last fifty pages, as if the novel's malicious volume was no match for my reading abilities; I was a hungry man too concerned with eating to be distracted by taste. But it was good.

My head is still fuzzy with prose; all my classes this term are reading-intensive and I just spent five hours at the library reading. Which is funny because I'd told Miguel Sanchez that six hours would kill me. (The percussionists were once again in my room on Friday night, once again complaining about their workload and lubricating the week's aches with alcohol.)

It's so nice not to have to do math problems anymore, ever.
Take that, Sinbad!

Last night, after Miguel Sanchez shuffled back to Kohler Hall exhausted (around 11… sad), we watched the first third of Lord of the Rings, which Greg has a flawless Divx of. Nick-From-Next-Door had never seen it before. I'd forgotten how amazing it is.

Later.