Right. Narcissism, then. Not only a bastard to spell, but an innate quality of mine which I don't like, and is therefore the reason I feel bad that this diary is basically a shrine to myself (thanks, Roy). It just bothers me that I write about myself the whole time. Fair enough, I've been doing some pretty excellent stuff lately but, man. I wish I had half the brains this person evidently does, or that I was not-a-finger funny. I also wish that I had hair of comparable lustrousness to that of the Nickelback singer, but hey.

So, time in the States Which Are United grows shorter. Last night, I dreamed that all my friends met me in a coalition at the airport, with banners and things. I also used the word 'coalition' when I talked to them, at which point I imagine they would have regretted ever having met me, were it not, you know. A big dream.

Also, money. If you live abroad for a while on Daddy's dime, you come to see your parents as just these abstract things which send you money, and to whom you occasionally lie on the phone about who you've been sleeping with. Or maybe that's just me. Anyway, that's why I decided to get a job. I accidentally got one on campus, but it wasn't what I was after and I only really ended up with it because I was too scared to stop signing the pieces of paper being thrust at me by the tiniest and most forceful woman I have ever. Met. So, I went and got another one. Really, jobs are remarkably easy to find if you present yourself as having limitless depths of usefulness. Which I do.

One of these days, the weather here will stop toying with me. Skiing the other day, I couldn't feel my face for a solid six hours. Also, that is possibly the best sport ever. The person who came up with wearing enormous fiberglass feet and going really quickly over snow for no reason other than that it's a rush is someone I want to meet. Possibly on one of those prison phones.