There's a lot to be said for sticking the right title on your condition, knowing the name of whatever beast is on your back. I am weary. There's all the work I've been doing, and the fact that what I'm doing now -- while still a highly enviable position -- is something of a come-down from the past two month's crazed running about, listening to the O Brother soundtrack and feeling a little like I did right after getting out of college, like those strange introspective days in Eugene in Arcata. There's also the strange new town aspect to things; not quite the same social support network.

But I'm not whining or complaining, more like admiting a problem; it's the first step to finding a solution. Think what you will of 12-step methodology (not a fan myself), but that's wisdom right there. I also need a neck massage in the worst way.

So I won't forget to breathe, and we're having a house-warming party this weekend, and that should be fun. I find myself tending to more grown-up pleasures lately; good conversation over good food and drink, an alternative to the half-bilnd groping fun of post-adolesence. Keep on truckin', that's what I'll do.