It was an astonishingly stupid idea to go see Eight Below this past weekend, which is not to say I didn't love it. But I've already got this horrible masochistic habit where I sometimes watch the Animal Cops shows on Animal Planet and my heart is broken, broken, broken, even when there are happy endings. And this was worse, because at least when I'm watching at home I can hug Libby and feel better because she at least was rescued and is now (ridiculously) well-cared for and adored.

I need to stop pretending I don't anthropomorphise animals because I DO, I do, to an embarassingly ridiculous degree I do.

I like how February is almost gone, and by like I mean it TERRIFIES me. It's been an interesting winter, in that it's barely felt like winter at all, what with the mere handful of genuinely cold days and about two instances of snow and more sunshine than I'm used to seeing this time of year - but never can I really forget it's still winter. After much bullying by my mother and my sort-of-not-really doctor I went up to 100mg of Zoloft in December & will stay there till spring, and I can't deny it's worked, but there's still that undeniable winterness that even SSRIs and unseasonable weather can't penetrate. With long nights, and just enough cold, I'm still lulled by the hibernation-call of the season, the slothful, antisocial slowness of it. I'm content but remote, cottony, prone to daydreams and afternoon naps.