Confession: that Ada or Ardor book (creation of Vladimir Nabokov) that I picked up several months ago, in the midst of my misery while school was in session? I still haven't finished it. Although thoroughly delightful (with Nabokov's characteristic artistic prose interspersed with a multitude of trilingual tangents), the tome measures about 600+ pages and is not sufficiently gripping for one to eagerly pursue its conclusion.

That fine must be exorbitant by now. The librarian informed me I would be unable to renew or re-check-out Ada another time (after exhausting this indulgence about sixteen times consecutively), so I obstinately held the book hostage for another few weeks, refusing to hand it over to whatever peon wanted the novel next.

Ah, I bemoan my summer school obligations. My companions can only be members of the "retard" and "bastard" biological kingdoms. Bowling strains my tendons and my anemic wrists. Scores that once-upon-a-time numbered in the 100s have now inexplicably nose-dived to the 30s and 40s. The English and Spanish summer slave-work, the cherry cordial Hershey's kisses… are not simplifying matters.

You… I wish I could throw a scintillated saber at your silhouette, and strike live flesh. A missive from whom… will not, will not at the risk of insanity.