I wish I could write something, but I can't. I am reading "Water for Elephants" and I can't stop. I need to stop because I am at work and the non-scary boss is in a scary mood, grumbling and mentally throwing plates and cakes. The room oozes repressed violent desires. We need a boxing pad downstairs and I need to stop reading, but I can't. Lately novels have dominated my life. Maybe my brain has gone mushy, maybe I want to be entertained, maybe it's because we don't have TV, maybe novels are good and academia has made me belief that non-fiction is only worth reading when it deals with genocide or Truth Commissions. Eat, Love, Pray; Beloved; White Noise; Seabiscuit and some Ayn Rand for good measure, and that's only February.

Some call it quarter life crisis. Some call is second adolescence.