"I can't think of a non-sexual metaphor."

I didn't think it was possible for this to get any better, but

( it just did. )

And my parents wonder why I suddenly have a fondness for motorcycles. Fwuh.

I ran errands today (I love my job; where else can you respond to the call of "Hey, Kate. We were wondering if you could get us a Roman centurion's helmet and bring it out to this college photoshoot for us.") and on my lunch break I stopped in Barnes & Noble and ordered this book from a flop-mopped young gentleman with more consonants in his name than I can string together or pronounce. He asked me what my interest in British universities was (no doubt noticing the discrepancy of loyalties in my Michigan Medical t-shirt) and flashed a gypsy's curious smile while he took down my information (my home number and cell number just in case I couldn't be reached immediately at either). Charmer.

'Also called gleam on my way to deliver the Golden Helmet and popped into Starbucks (twice) for drinks. My blood is currently three parts espresso, one part caramel scraped from the bottom of the cup while holding the steering wheel with my elbow.

Shut up, I still like this song.

Strange mood tonight.

I was reading Feiler's Walking The Bible but now I'm feeling more partial to Darwin's Dangerous Idea.

And I've still got Notes From A Small Island on my nightstand, along with In The Wake Of The Plague.

I should not be allowed to own so many books -- or to read so many at once.

Feh.

I think bed is in order.