I just wrote my (gone away for now) boyfriend a real, honest-to-goodness, paper letter, in slightly erratic cursive, with a one-inch left margin and almost-straight lines. And it felt so incredibly good, physically and psychologically, to feel the little indents on the paper where my pen squiggled away, and to see the paper come alive before my very eyes.

I feel like writing as of late, but nothing too heavy. I want to write something like a Jane Austen novel, except that I've never really read Austen, and I don't have the patience for that kind of story. We'll see, I suppose.

It's been so terribly warm here these past few days, and the air conditioner isn't working. Woe to me! Alas it seems everyone is caught in the same dilemma. Should be marginally cooler tomorrow, and hopefully the rest of the week.