I think the whole vacation can be summed up by the way I woke up this morning, in one of those "oh shit" moments that is simultaneously an "oh, the power must have gone out or something" moment. And, for once, the power had gone out, but it was also an "oh shit" moment. Because it was 12:55. Those of you who know me well know how much shit I give people that sleep past eleven.

Which is to say that it's nearly Sunday, and I'm having a "surely not..." moment, in which I review all the things that I was supposed to have done before school reconvenes on Monday. Every time a vacation rolls to an end, it's less of a coast and more of that feeling you get as a plane is landing -- first things are quiet and you're up in the air anticipating the wheels hitting the pavement, and once they do the massive brakes hit and the panels of the wings open up to channel the air. Everything goes from quiet to obnoxiously loud and adrenalin-filled in just a few moments. I have a mini one of these every Sunday night before school starts the next day, but after what has seemed like such a short vacation, the moment has been magnified.

I was supposed to finish Sir Gawain as well as write over ten pages for my various creative writing classes. We'll pretend like some of that will be happening after I finish this.

Mark and I went to Davenport's, my favorite pizza place, and we each had half a pizza. There was a good hour before it came, though, and after we finished we played arcade games. Not only does Davenport's have amazing pizza (thin crust, my favorite), but they have a whole wall of vintage arcade games -- the Donkey Kong barrel-jumping game, Ms. Pacman, Centipede, and they used to have Frogger, but I think it must have broken. It's the hole-in-the-wall pizza joint you've always dreamed of for your college days, complete with dirty, unshaven, piercing-ridden boys working in the kitchen. What is it about pizza places that attracts all the dirty hip kids? One day, I'll be hip enough to work in a pizza place.

Lately I've been gazing at Gael García Bernal after seeing The Motorcycle Diaries with Carolyn. (This journal, by the way, exists so that I can drop movie titles on you, in hopes that you'll go see them. It's especially bad now, since it's the holidays.) I'm realizing what a weakness I have for Eurotrash. Especially quadralingual Eurotrash (tetralingual?), though it's debatable. Anyone who can date Natalie Portman has a special place in my heart.