Rinky-dink

I'm in Norris. I've been here for at least 4-and-a-half hours, mostly doing nothing but avoiding homework. In the course of my hours of avoiding homework, I've read 20 pages of Aristotle, written 5 pages of a 10-page play (that I have no idea how to continue with or even start with) and goofed off on the internet for a bazillion years.

But mostly I've been staring out the window towards the lakefill where the Northwestern administration has been kind enough to set up a small ice-skating rink. I'm sorry for being such a creeper, everyone--it's just too good to NOT watch. From my hours of stalking, I know the patches of ground that are dangerously slippery because I have seen dozens of people face-plant on them. I have laughed the laugh of the truly evil many a time while watching that. I have seen children skidding around and old people holding hands and guys trying to show off to giggling girls and some girls performing jumps and twirls with frightening determination. And mostly I've seen tons of college students laughing to one another with the same type of glee that you feel when you're bowling--the sort of novelty-like-giddiness that accompanies that thing that you only do maybe once a year, and always surrounded by friends.

First week of school done. I didn't really want to come back, mostly because I didn't feel like I had enough time with my friends at home, and also partly because it is so fucking cold here. But now that I'm here it's fine. Isn't that always the case? I love both home and school, but I absolutely dread the transition from one to the other.

I can measure the accomplishments of that first week in television (I can measure most things in television). This week happens to have been a victory for the BBC, because it's been "Never Mind the Buzzcocks" and "Sherlock" taking over my life. Both of them are examples of their respective genres that are almost too good because I have difficulty not thinking about them. I went through an entire day with Simon Amstell quips running through my head. I went through this week trying to be as observant and debonair as Benedict Cumberbatch's (heehee) Sherlock Holmes (I failed).

The Big Realization that "Sherlock" has treated me to is the reawakening of my super-strong desire to live in London. I've never been, and all I know about London is what I've learned from television, which is probably not the most realistic foundation, but that doesn't seem to matter. AUGH. Oh, to work for the BBC.

Have a happy winter, everyone. Go ice skating. It looks like fun.