I’m such a sucker. Each month nearly half of my paycheck goes to paying back college loans, and I resent those bills the most: dreaming of the kind of life I would assuredly be leading without that debt holding me down. Would I be traversing Thailand with nothing but a tattered backpack and a charmingly freckled face? Would I be learning new languages, how to ballroom dance, the preparation of delicious time-consuming recipes? Would I have more time to write? I’m sure those loans are the reason that I don’t write more often.

And yet whenever a wide-eyed Bard freshman, making minimum wage (plus free pizza), calls me and asks for a donation to my esteemed alma mater, whatever I can afford, I reply “. . . can I write you a check?”

Things got a little violent in our apartment building over the weekend. View the evidence for yourself, if you like.

Where he fell.

Flickr, Facebook, personal weblog . . . if you and I should happen to hang out, it is my promise — my solemn oath to you — that evidence of our transgressions will pop up all over the internet, with tags.

It snowed all day today and still hasn’t stopped, big soft flakes floating all down the east coast. Cars squealed and spun along Spring Hill, and I wore my red rubber boots.

“This is a beautiful city,” I thought, pausing mid-tromp through a particularly large white dune. “I would like to make snow forts in it.”

Quinzhee

Huzzah! At last, I once again have access to this website via FTP.

I feel like I just turned 18: should I purchase some cigarettes? Star in some pornography? Upload a song? Create a new directory? The sky is the limit.

I haven’t always been “a breakfast person”. But apparently I am now. Actually, it’s kind of gotten out of control.

A typical Saturday morning in Somerville.

Last year it took us about an hour to make our breakfasts: now we’ve got the routine down to twenty-five minutes. You should come over some time, and gain five pounds with us.

Update: now with overly-detailed notes, here!