I check my Smith email account perhaps once a week, seeing as I've got two other accounts I use and the Smith one's just where I get Smith-related junk mail. By chance I checked it five minutes ago, and had an absolutely delightful email from my history professor, canceling class.

Rah rah yeah.

So it's Valentine's Day. I have little reason to care, though I managed to ascertain several days ago that my mother had ordered flowers for me. They have not yet come. Last year she got my a dozen white tulips - the woman knows what I like.

But given the date, I suppose it's only right to mention my latest, most shameful pastime. Romance novels. (I even say it in my head like a dirty word.) Oh, I've got all sorts of justifications for it, but the truth is, it's just an escape. With them, I know exactly what I'm getting into, and I'm not pretending to derive any sort of literary benefit from the experience; it's a pleasant fantasy, nothing more. I'd be more embarassed, perhaps, if I weren't enjoying them so much. I'll admit I had terribly low opinions of the things before I read my first, and so far I've been pleasantly surprised. Shakespeare they're not, but some have considerably more substance to their plots than I'd expected.

I want my flowers. Sigh. I feel stupid checking every fifteen minutes to see if they've arrived. I should finish reading Dorothy Day, but I'm still filled with irrational anger towards the woman. I don't know how in hell I'm going to write the damn reflection paper with any degree of objectivity.