I don't know why I sometimes get it into my head that I want—need, really—something. Something so stupid too.

It's 1:33 am and though I tell myself I'm just procrastinating—this much is true—it goes deeper than that. I don't want to concentrate because I'm thinking about voids I've created for myself, and now I'm wallowing in them.

Two finals finished; two remain. In a little more than two days, I'll pack up my things and board a plane for home. (Having declared Amtrak evil consummate after my last ride home—highlights include the four hours without power or fresh air we spent on the tracks outside of New Roshelle and the conductor who threatened to throw me off in Trenton (one stop from my final destination) because after ten hours of train-riding, I had managed to misplace my ticket stub—I have decided flying is a much better option. That belief will probably persist until my flight is either cancelled, delayed, or both.)

I have this hacking cough that irritates me to no end. It started as a minor sore throat last Tuesday and has progressed into a major sore throat, then stuffed up sinuses accompanied by what I believe to have been a small fever, and now—oh joy, the hacking cough. I've gone through about half a bag of cough drops, which taste awful and coat my teeth with their annoying stickiness, which sends me to my toothbrush far too often. However, toothpaste and cough drops don't really mix, and the result is a constant bad taste in my mouth that's really just quite delightful.

At least it'll help me avoid that holiday binge eating.

I also have a rather large bruise on my leg which I cannot remember attaining at all. It's fairly large and discolored—big enough that you'd imagine whatever caused it was pretty damn painful—but I have no recollection. I'd say I did it in my sleep, but there's nothing particularly jagged or sharp in or near my bed that would have resulted in it. No corresponding marks on the other leg—no real signs at all. This happens fairly often to me and it probably should disturb me much more than it does.

It's amazing how little I need to leave my room when I'm not forced to do otherwise.

I like it here though. There's something strangely soothing about a room lit only by Christmas lights and by the city outside my window. There are always cars going by out there. Almost always people out there too, even though it's raining wind tonight. I've finally found a perfect balance of temperatures in my room—heat on low, windows open a crack—and it's comfortable in here.

I have managed to wear away thirty-three minutes just now, and though my self-manufactured voids still remain (and my inbox stands just as empty) the deadline to stop procratinating and start working looms nearer. (If only I knew what, exactly, that deadline was, but I guess it doesn't matter. I'm not good at making deadline anyway.)

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