Nothing to report

It's a little disconcerting to realize how routine my life really is. Despite any illusions that I am fully capable of spontaneity, excitement, and the occasional impulse buy, my days are beginning to seamlessly blend into the same sort of rhythm: school, study, sleep, interrupted by bursts of eating, checking my e-mail, and dancing around my apartment in a vain attempt to shake and shimmy off the holiday weight.

I wish my life was a little less predictable and mundane, and a little more full of the small details that make the lives of everyday people more interesting: overnight trips to big cities, a windowsill garden, fresh flowers and newly baked bread. At the same time, it's so much easier to know exactly what I'm going to do the moment I wake up—the persistent habit of a comfort-seeking list-maker, who delights in surprises but has little time or energy to devote to cultivating them.

So there's nothing to report on the horizon. I am stranded on a tropical island of my own making (NOT desert—I do not understand why people always reference the "desert island." It seems a little counter-intuitive to assume that an island, by nature surrounded by ocean, should be desert [unless it's at one of the poles]). And there are no ships on the horizon—at least, none that are due to come in sight before next weekend, when a certain birthday boy will make the long and arduous trek to the Bend for a blissful birthday weekend.