I am not a fountain of wisdom, and should not be treated as such.

          Tomorrow is the first thesis colloquium. I'm a little concerned at how not anxious I am about it. Whatever.
          [sidenote - I cannot get over how fantastic this perfume smells. It's like cake and ice cream. And sexiness. It cost way, way too much, but I don't feel guilty about splurging on it. I dig it.]

          I'm listening to an old mix I'd made a couple years back. I listened to the songs too much, but now they're great again. They're making me nostalgic.
          One of the songs is from a Fruit Bats album (Spelled in Bones) my brother gave me when I went off to college. I listened to it almost exclusively my first semester. I have these terrible associations with it, but some really wonderful ones, too. And I've built other memories on top of those in the past few years. I listen to it now and it's deep and rich, it has this complexity to it.
          One of my professors was talking about mix tapes the other day, and how they're a wonderful thing. I'm torn over it. Most of me disagrees - I, for example, can't listen to much Ben Folds anymore because of the memories they dredge up from the thick and stagnant backwaters of recollection. But then again, sometimes songs or mixes or albums start building up chagrin and nostalgia, like my Fruit Bats CD, until it's this heady cocktail of memory and emotion. Listening to that disc is like reading poetry - it's years of experiences condensed into something sharp and beautiful, soft and strange.
          So I guess I'm not against mix tapes on principle. Except for the fact that they're such a cliche. Very Perks of Being a Wallflower-esque.

          And the inevitable commentary on the weather:
          It was damp and cold this morning; the air felt like pneumonia, sort of weak, sort of shaking. When I walked into the science building, there were trails of these bright gold Honey Locust leaves on the floor, tracked in on wet shoes and left twenty feet inside, this unexpected swirl of color. When I was leaving a while later, there was a janitor sweeping them up into a black garbage bag.
          It cleared up in the afternoon, though. It was cold and the light was coming in through the trees. The air smelled clean after the rain, and there was a faint undertone of the leaves underfoot mixed in. Wood and chlorophyll, and the slight sweetness of decay. It was a little muddy, and I left footprints on the pavement.



          Wow, hey, you know what I hate? I hate when I'm an instrumental part of ruining my friends' days.
          No one should trust my advice, ever. I quit at trying to help. I may be a good listener, but I suck as an adviser.