There’s always some­thing creepy about talk­ing to my pro­fes­sors. I feel like they have a face to put with my mark. As a num­ber, none of my fail­ures mean any­thing. But when I talk to one, I feel like I’m let­ting them down. I’m scared that they’ll know what my marks are, and that from then on they’ll rec­og­nize me as not going to class and fail­ing the mid-terms. Usually I can’t stand e-mailing my profs. It has almost never been a pleas­ant experience.

I actu­ally feel like I need to get drunk before going out this Friday. I’ve never felt like that before. Apparently, it’s one of the signs of alco­hol abuse. I’ve only drank so that I could fall asleep a few times, which is another sign. It’s not a prob­lem though, so I’m not worried.

Aaron showed me the cabin that we’re rent­ing next year. It’s so damn sweet. The whole deal has been moved from read­ing week to some week-end in January, which should save us some money. Aaron’s going to let me bor­row his board, and hope­fully I’ll be able to fit into Greg’s boots, so that all I’ll really need to pay for is the lift ticket, the cabin, and the drinks, which should all be under $200.