How are the resolutions I brought back from LA going? Well, I haven't made it to the Athens farmer's market yet, and thus, have purchased no flowers to keep in the house. I guess a small-scale massacre of the front yard could mean hyacinths and tulips in the kitchen and at my desk, but I like 'em right where they are - lined up like tin soldiers guarding the porch, surprising me on my walk home from class with new petals unfolded and smears of bright color.

I have, however, been successful in laying off nearly a third of my wardrobe. Oversized jeans with holes in the crotch? Too-small sports bra dyed pink in the wash? Sweater that hasn't been worn since high school? Your service to this company over the past few years has been invaluable but I'm afraid there isn't a place for you here anymore.

On the first marginally warm day of the year, everyone loses their shit, including me.

In an uncharacteristic fit of spring-weather-inspired domesticity, I line-dried all my linens yesterday, pee-my-pants excited about how starchy and fresh-smelling they would be. I admit that before I got a hold of myself, I stood with a mug of coffee in the backyard, more or less watching them dry.

After the sun got my towels all good and unwet, I brought them in.

I missed one though. And then it got rained on. And then it froze stiff.

This is why the midwest is the home of people who constantly say "if you don't like the weather, wait a minute!". Also the home of frozen bath towels.

My mom used to say "bloom where you're planted", which is good advice, but something that, laid bare on this Internet, I am obviously not great at. I'm going to go with "eat what grows in the side yard", especially broiled in olive oil and a little balsamic vinegar for acid and topped with sea salt and black pepper.

Every so often I'm stunned when I remember that I only really had my life planned up until "finish college", which happened nine months ago, and that I'm going to be kind of winging it from here on out. And sometimes I remember, if only for a fleeting moment, that this is my life, that I'm inside it, that while I can more or less do as I choose until I bite it, I am stuck doing those things as myself, as this brain in this body. The bad news: I am someone who, when things feel bad, they feel exceptionally, tragically bad. The good news: I am someone for whom a plate of perfectly seasoned vegetables is akin to rolling on ecstasy.

I am still sort of dumbfounded that my friends trek across southeastern Ohio - caulking the wagon and floating it, fording the stream, what have you - to get drunk on my porch and sleep in my bed. Not once, but many many times over the last six months have I been so delighted and relieved to have visitors that it was all I could do to not curl up in their lap and smell their neck.

I've realized that there have been several occasions during my Athens tenure, and they are often weekends, where I go an entire day without uttering a word. I wake up and study and run and make dinner and do laundry and watch TV and go to bed. Maybe Nick is sleeping later and going to work early and our relationship maintenance is relegated to monosyllabic inside joke text messages. Maybe my roommate is spending the day at a friend's. And a full 24 hours passes without me uttering a peep, which for someone chronically afflicted with what my 5th grade teacher called "diarrhea of the mouth", is a very troubling thing indeed. So you can understand why when Lauren drove to visit me today my left arm went numb and I was pretty sure "the big one" was sure to strike. You hear that, Elizabeth? I'm comin' to join you.

Today my dad called me and urgently decided that it was now or never to get my taxes in order. I'm 22 and my parents still claim me as a dependent, and as much as I'd like to get this stuff in order myself, something tells me that my dad is a teeny bit soothed by being in control of all the tax stuff. He was in Columbus for a meeting and so we met halfway at a Panera in Lancaster so I could sign things and write checks to the gummint. He ordered a hot chocolate, which is hilarious to me. There he was, gray-haired and clad in sharp business attire, getting whipped cream on his nose.

We talked a little about my "career" and "options" (emphasis on the scare quotes there) and I am pretty lucky that my parents have never put a ton of pressure on me to take a cookie cutter career path or buy heavily into institutionalized notions of success. Although sometimes I wonder if the reason I'm not being hassled to get my life together is because I'm the baby and they keep forgetting that I'm at an age where that should be expected of me. So I'm gonna ride that out til at least senior prom.

Matt crashed here tonight on his way from Cincinnati to D.C. We drank beers and swapped stories about life in retail/food service hell. Matt told me about Half-Price Books' "one bug policy". Your box of water-damaged, yellowed, spine-cracked sci-fi books can have one dead bug in it. Any more dead bugs and you'll have to peddle your goods elsewhere.

Also, guys, remember to remove your nudie polaroids from the books you sell. Book store employees will not be laughing "with" you.

Nick and I saw Morrissey tonight at the Palace Theatre and I'm pretty sure my sixteen year old heart still can't believe its eyes. But there he was, mere feet in front of us, pompadour and cowcatcher jaw and all, whipping his microphone cord around like a ribbon dancer.

The enormous backdrop image was a shirtless sailor, fat stogey in his cheek, flexing both biceps. Across his chest were the words, "refusal". It was so very Morrissey, the kind of thing that is endearing if you're a fan and very corny and stupid if you aren't. He did just enough Smiths songs to sate the very diverse crowd and the encore ("First of the Gang to Die") was far more surreal than seeing Steven Morrissey "in person". So many people were trying to rush the stage to hug him (or rub him..or feast on his flesh) that there was a fleet of bouncers, crouched like wrestlers, clotheslining and tackling anyone who dared to hop on stage (and there were many). It was hard to concentrate on Morrissey's fey flirtation with his mic when such an entertaining melee was unfolding in his midst.

We ran into Chris and Erin downtown after the show, and the four of us had drinks at TipTop, all star-addled and buzzing on beer.