...has been called on account of rain. Book Kitten is soggy. I spent the whole day crying. I cried because I haven't been reading. I cried because the people who just moved in below me smoke and it is stinking up my apartment and now Bella and I are going to die of lung cancer.I cried because I didn't realize Easter was here already and I had wanted to decorate eggs this year. And, man, oh, man did I cry at season five of Buffy. There were a whole bunch of other reasons, too, I'm sure. My cheeks are like salt licks. I can barely see to type this. Maybe tomorrow will be better. Or maybe I'll wake up...

Sorry I've been so distant. Book Kitten is sad like a lost shark. It's almost vacation time, I'll bring you up to speed then, promise...

Today I ate an angry banana. It seemed happy enough when I picked it out at the bagel place this morning. Canary yellow, no bruises or scrapes, no soft spots. It felt fine when I peeled it back to eat, too, but when I bit down into it, I hit a soft spot, and upon immediate examination saw that it had a black squishy spot through the middle. It had tricked me. How could it be so gross inside and yet so lovely on the outside? My obvious conclusion was that the banana was internalizing something, keeping it all in until it rotted its insides. What do bananas get upset about? What could have caused it such consternation that it went all slimy and limp? After a few minutes of thought, the answer was clear: it knew I was going to eat it.

Everybody has a lucky number, whether they're conscious of it or not. Mine is 18. It's the day I was born, July 18. I don't remember when it became my lucky number, it has just kinda always been that way. The only time I didn't get to use it was on my softball jersey when I was nine. Some other wretched girl wanted it as well, so my dad, being the coach, told me I had to let her have it. I was mad, but made do with the number ten. She was later blessed with an inordinate amount of facial hair when we reached high school. Coincidence? I think not.

However, just because you have a lucky number, doesn't mean it always works for you. Receiving 18 blows to the head, for instance, is worse than 17. Having 18 tattoos isn't as satisfying as if I had 19. And even though The Geographer's Library was the eighteenth book I've read this year, it still wasn't good. It was quite useless, really. The main character, Paul, is a big weenie. He is completely irrational about things you would never think twice about and totally misses the most obvious points. And he behaves like a ninny about a girl who isn't developed well enough for us to understand why he does so. She just seems unpleasant. It appeared promising with the word 'library' in the title. I've never told anyone before, but I when I was little, I totally prided myself on the fact that 'library' and 'liberty' were so similar- close sounding, same amount of letters, same amount of syllables, same first three letters. I thought it was a sign that I was meant to love books.

The good news about The Geographer's Library is that I don't dislike it even a fraction as much as I hate the new book I'm reading, Nickel and Dimed. It's 221 pages, was published in 2001, and was written by Barbara Ehrenreich, one of the most conceited, condescending, racist people I've come across in non-fiction. How is it that everyone raves about this book? As for me, I'm going to save the raving for my next entry because I'm having quite a lovely Sunday, and don't want to gum up my pipes with venom. But I promise, I'll tell you all about it. Until then, eat your cereal with a fork and do your homework in the dark...

Red = Thinking about Significant Dave

Green= Listening to "Beer for Breakfast"

Yellow = Using the computer

Blue = Playing with Bella

Orange = Going to breakfast

Purple = Hula-hooping

Pink = Lifting weights

Grey = Thinking she should be reading

Black = Actually reading

In summary, I suck.

So, in case you were wondering what I've been doing instead of reading, I've acquired a new habit. It's called "Lost," and I can't stop watching! Significant Dave and I are hooked, we've burned through the first five episodes of the first season. Why am I being tested when all I want to do is read? Why am I so weak? Must...fight... P.S. No idea what the red circles are for, just like the explosion!

She is tired, she is sick and she is behind on her reading...little orange kitty is blue...

I know this is going to sound crazy, but the thing that bugs me about mysteries is not knowing all the answers. I think I read mysteries faster than any other genre because I can't stand not knowing. Take my third book, Tell No One, for instance. The guy's wife is dead. Murdered, her body beaten and branded. And positively identified, mind you. Now, eight years later, on their anniversary, he receives an anonymous email with a link. The link takes him to a webcam where at a specific time his supposedly dead wife pops up and tells him she's sorry before she disappears again.

Well, that's not cool! How is it possible? Was it someone else's body, all part of a big cover-up? Is it a twin sister? I want an Oompa Loompa now, Dad-dee! 11:52pm + 320 pages to go= Book Kitten is pulling another all-nighter. Oh, well, as they say, no rest for the wicked...curious.

Sometimes I feel so sad that we can't just do the things we want. I want to spend days and days just lying around and reading. I want to shut the world out and hide in my apartment with my books, soaking up as much of them as I can before the outside comes crashing back in. Is there such thing as a book convent? Maybe I could just join a real convent.

(LOUD LAUGHTER SHAKES THE EARTH)