I am unsettled. A strangely dispersed smattering of tears over a movie threw me into this mood, which is frustrating.

Yesterday walking on the square in an oversized plaid shirt, beat up leather boots, and someone's leftover shorts from 1998 I was so happy. It was a moment where I was so completely content being alone--surrounded by townspeople but being an island of sorts. I pretended they all looked at me when I walked by and said who is this wild, untamed woman? She is different.

I have turned into one giant book. I read A Streetcar Named Desire today for the first time. It was good, refreshingly traumatic. Books and plays cannot stand to only be depressing, it's boring. Williams did something great by interwinding the entire city of New Orleans in as a character in this play. It gives it more meaning, more hopelessness, more life. Also, I'm reading Bloodline by Ernest Gaines, and Never Let Me Go by Kazuo Ishiguro. Today I was supposed to start reading Kim by Kipling, but my brain can't can't can't take it right now. For some reason I never bought the book at the beginning of the semester and then realized yesterday I have readings due Thursday. Rats. I tried to get the eBook, but it felt so much like cheating that I ordered a cheap used copy off of Amazon and I'm getting it over-nighted. Or something. I would rather be behind and have a real, solid book in my hands.

Yesterday was my first impulse book by of the semester. [Don't get me wrong, I had about 78 impulse book buys right before the semester began] I bought Jon Krakauer's Into the Wild. I'm excited to read it as soon as I'm done with Ishiguro's book. Agh, look at me. This post is turning into a book diary.

On a non-book related note, I have almost an entire week off for Thanksgiving. So, so happy.