I've found a new true love and his name is Craign Ferguson.

He's 6'2", Scottish, and the host of the Late Late Show on CBS. 

His monologue, the two times I've seen it, is good, though it seems even better than it probably is because it's enhanced by his delicious Scottish brogue.  I mean, he's like an older Hugh Grant in his boyish, mischievous charm, except he's better looking and cleverer.

What could be more perfect?

So tired.  Even though I think I probably was asleep more than awake today.  It wasn't my fault though.  When I read Henry James my brain immediately shuts down as a defense mechanism.

NEVER READ HENRY JAMES. 

Or if you do, stick to his short stories and novels up to like, the first four hundred pages of The Portrait of a Lady.  Because it's just downhill after that--you end up with like, an eight adjectives per noun ratio, and that's never good for comprehension.

SLEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEP.

Went to the bookstore the other day and saw that there was a new Meg Cabot book out.  V. exciting.  All her books are the same, but they're still fun to read.  Harmless drivel. 

To counteract the harmless drivel, I also want to read Joan Didion's memoir, The Year of Magical Thinking.  It sounds crazy good.  And emo.  Yay.

SLEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEP.

OMG.  Must write. Paper due.  Soon.  AH. 

Dear Sleep,

I miss you.  I look forward to your extended visit tomorrow, right after I turn in my final and before I start studying for the next one.

Yearningly yours,

Karen

Have become fuzzy-minded, mouth-breathing, hacking, coughing mess. 

Dear Body,

Thank you for giving out just when I need you most.  Finals start on Monday, and all you can do is feel terrible and achy and sleepy.  Sleeping will not help me pass my finals.  Especially when it isn't even good sleep, but the kind where you wake up with really bad sinus pain and feeling like you haven't actually slept at all/like a giant pink hippopotamus (and you can't even spell that) has sat on you for the past five to eight hours.

Regrettably yours,

Karen

The Weasel finally passed her driving test.  She's now a 16-year-old with a license.

Children.  They grow up so fast. 

The Weasel, in particular, is deceptively old because she looks like she could be about 12 years old.  Because in addition to being a Weasel, she's a Midget.  A Midget-Weasel.

But even Midget-Weasels grow older, though this one remains refreshingly naive.  Like she still gets scandalized at The Notebook.  And she didn't know what a G-spot was until this morning.  And she told me all this, giggling like a maniac.

And now she's playing Harry Potter, The Videogame, and making odd squeaking noises.