Home.

Well, Crystal and I managed to get on our train, and made it back to Eugene around 1:00 AM. Ellen was kind enough to pick us up from the station and let us sleep in her darling little house. She drove us to the airport this morning on her way to school. (As Blanche DuBois says, "I have always depended on the kindness of strangers.")

The flight home was fine, and because nobody was able to pick us up from the airport we caught a shuttle back into town. I got home a little over an hour ago. So far Mom and Dad are the only ones who've been excited to see me, but that's okay. They're my BFFs anyway.

Over the course of this weekend I have managed to write nothing about Spencer. Mostly because I've been having a ton of fun, but also because we've hardly talked. I am having a lot of thoughts about this right now but they're not really for the internet so unless you are (A) a spy or (B) one of my unborn children, that story is For British Eyes Only. (Meaning: for me.)

I've been thinking a lot about starting to write my memoirs. Like, as a sort of potential book thing? I don't know that anybody would want to read anything I have to say but I guess if Chelsea Handler/Russell Brand/George W. Bush can do it, I can too. Right? I know I'm less scary than all three of those people. I mean, I've never been an alcoholic or sexually abused or the president of the United States, but I'm at least somewhat interesting.

Anway, I'm meeting up with Alex after he gets out of Cat on a Hot Tin Roof rehearsal so that we can (finally) block our scenes for KCACTF. It's not like we leave a week from tomorrow or anything. No pressure.