I'm reading my mom's copy of The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn, which is hers from grad school. It's written all over in her tiny cursive, mostly things about Huck's morals vs. those of 'sivilization.' On the inside front cover it says, 'Colleen McGuire Byrne 10-76.' Then it says, 'Colleen Byrne,' but in my dad's handwriting. There's also two address stamps for Colleen M. Byrne, Bay 22nd St., Brooklyn. She was reading this two months after she got married, when she was 23. It'd be like me reading it this October, as a newlywed, living in Brooklyn.

Things like that make me go lightheaded. 

Gold star weekend: Narnia Friday (not your mother's Narnia; ruther depressing, mostly); Lauren Saturday (cheap Italian eats, utterly decent Guinness worth writing home to Brendan about); free court-side tickets to a Liberty game today (hilariously fun, except for the six year old next to me who kicked over my soda).

I'm so sleepy, I could just fall asleep.