Last night it took me a while to get to sleep, so I ended up taking a Vicodin at 3 am cause I figured that might help, and if it didn't, well, no harm done. Then I had some crazy dreams.

Dream:
I saved like three toddlers from drowning, and for some reason I had stripped off all my clothes to do so. Mrs. Hornick was holding a towel around my shoulders, and then a lady (a real-life friend of Mrs. Hornick's) asked why I was naked except for a towel, and I said it was because I was a member of the Campus Nude Recreation Club, as a joke. She shrugged, said "okay...", and started putting food out for lunch.
Then I dreamt I got a call from Steve. He decided he needed to go to Nebraska to "find himself". He said he'd probably never come back to Chicago. And he needed to leave like this weekend. I wouldn't be home until the weekend after that, so I realized I wouldn't get to say goodbye to him, and I'd probably never see him again.

I finished Smashed: Story of a Drunken Girlhood by Koren Zailckas, continuing my tradition? quest? love? of reading memoirs of people with kind of screwed-up lives. It was pretty good. I took umbrage with some of the quotes on the back, though. They were about how every mother who has a daughter should read this book, because it gives insight on the secret lives of teenaged girls everywhere. Except...I didn't like that generalization that all teenage girls have drinking problems. I know that my mom certainly wouldn't read that book and then immediately suspect me, since I've worked hard to earn her trust. But there are probably mothers out there who read the book, or skim it in a bookstore, and then immediately begin to suspect their daughters as having self-destructive lifestyles where alcohol is a huge contributor. I'd like to think that mothers across America would be more willing to trust their daughters, who they've known for umpteen years, but I know that the idea of alcohol abuse will be planted in some mothers' minds, and their daughters will have to own up to a crime they never committed. I dunno, maybe this is me being cynical again.

As of last week, my eyes and nose have started their annual rebellion against my face. What with the itching, and the not enough mucus, but suddenly too much mucus, and the dryness, and the frustration, and the GLAVIN! Anyone here ever rubbed your nose so hard (cause it itches) that you've given yourself a blister? A blister. Inside your nose??? Well, I have. I thought it was a cancerous growth but then I went to the doctor and he said I'm just a little too zealous with the nose-itching. But it itches, people! So I'm going through my own version of hell, where I want to claw my face off and start over with just a skull and some muscles and some saran wrap to keep it all in place. And also I want to sleep 23 hours per day, a goal that I started working toward by skipping French Civ today in favor of taking a nap. I'm going to go read some of my French Lit homework so that in the event that I poke out my eyes in frustration, I'll have it read before I have to find a Braille version of Les Femmes d'Alger dans leur appartement. (P.S. Louis Braille was French, so it would be cool to read a French book in Braille. Like how it's more pure if you read a French book in French as opposed to a translated English version, maybe Braille is more pure if it's in French. I wonder how they render the accents. There's really no need to render stuff like ê and î, stuff that doesn't change the pronunciation, but I wonder about é and è and ç and stuff. Note to self: Find out.)

I saw two guys holding hands today while I was walking around campus. It made me happy that they felt comfortable enough to hold hands in public.

Tonight Talia and I got Chinese food, and then we went to Target and I bought some stuff (including beads that look like katamari), and then we went to Borders and I bought some new books. So now I feel good.

I had a depressing thought today, and I'm going to try to say this without trying to sound like I'm being deep, cause I don't want to be all like fake deep. But it occurred to me today that all of the feelings I've ever felt have been felt before by hundreds of millions of other people, intensities far greater than I've ever experienced anything. I'm not different from anyone else. There's nothing in the pain or joy that I feel that makes me original. And it bummed me out, like why feel anything if I can't feel anything that hasn't been felt before? I dunno.

Tonight I finished Choke by Chuck Palahniuk. I liked it for the most part, although it got a little bit repetetive. The themes were very similar to those in Fight Club (the movie, at least; I haven't read the book yet).