Getting a job in New Hampshire in summer when you're a writing major with no marketable skill is like trying to ski down a mountain in the middle of the spring with roller blades and a hockey stick. NO HOPE.

It's getting to be a serious problem. I need book money and more importantly piercing money. I loathe how dependent our culture as a whole is on the movement of currency. If only the bartering system worked for loan companies.

Since coming back from Puerto Rico, I haven't written anything worthwhile. I think it's the house in general, I've never been able to do a lot of writing here. I need my own space, and I just don't have it. I share a bedroom and there isn't a desk anywhere in the house, just the kitchen table. Things are constantly going on and i can't ever concentrate on something long enough to get anything done.

'but Caith,' I hear you say, 'you share a room at the dorm too!'

in the dorm I have a desk. And classrooms. And things that make my brain work the way it should.

So, give me a prompt. I dare you.

Man, I need a drink. And a job. In that order.

On the bright side, The Brief and Wonderous Life of Oscar Wao is just as good as I hoped it would be. As soon as I'm done with it I'm going to reread The Road, only this time without a tiny Chris Anderson on my shoulder telling me to observe the writing style.

I need to straighten the room up and turn on some lights, as it is getting dark.