The summer's moving right along (the end of June already...when did that happen?), and yet not fast enough. Summer is boring the sentience right out of me. I've read at least 25 books since May, and that is not an exaggeration...I just finished Umberto Eco's The Name of the Rose (brilliant, amazing novel, by the way, which I suggest you read, like, now), despite having read it something along the lines of 300 times already. I mean, I love to read--it's practically one of my default activities--but there are limits, and I have reached them, a fact evidenced by my increasingly spurious use of italics.

The only thing I really want to do this summer is go home to Maine for a week or so, and I'm no longer sure if that's going to be possible, what with the ridiculous price of gas. I've been jonesing pretty hard recently for the island I grew up on, probably because of the absolutely stupid heat and humidity we endured here for a week straight. Homesickness is icky.

Right now, I have that curious sort of laziness which is, like, a crossroads between wanting to do stuff, and not wanting to do stuff. Ennui, maybe...a kind of listless boredom. God, I can't wait for classes to begin again.

I think I'll go get some donuts.