*exhales*

Today I read, cover-to-cover, To Say Nothing Of The Dog by Connie Willis.

I do not think I have enjoyed any other book that much in my entire life. I'M NOT KIDDING. My eyes have turned into blissful little stars of adoration. The girls I'm staying with kept glancing at me and the (admittedly thick) book and saying, Fahye, didn't you just start that this morning? Are you now two-thirds of the way through? Don't you have a Clinical Services assignment to be doing?

Me: IT'S A MYSTERY OKAY SHUT UP SHUT UP SOMETHING ELSE EXCITING AND HILARIOUS IS ABOUT TO HAPPEN

Seriously. Stars. Comme ça: *_____________* Though I've now run out of books, which is of course a tragedy of epic proportions, but does mean my assignment might actually get done.

I also had a conversation with one of the girls about reading and writing and how important they are in my life, and she asked me, flat-out: Would you rather be a writer than a doctor? If money was meaningless?

And I said, yes.

(She said she'd be a baker. If she could.)

I don't go in for regrets; I think I'm doing the right thing with my life, at the moment.

But, you know. If I could.