So it's today. That's cool.
Yesterday, after finding my (along with Wil and Hank) way onto the correct airplane (despite arriving at the gate ten minutes after the flight's scheduled departure), I worked my way into Myopic books and bought five books (two of which I already own, though one is now in the possession of Danny's ex-girlfriend).
While in Florida, I finished that book of best American essays from 2009 that Mike (who orders Peppermint tea on a nearly nightly basis), then As I Lay Dying, and The House on Mango Street, before beginning My Ishmael. From Florida, I brought back four more of Charles Dickens' novels to expand my collection (though I've yet to read a single one. My grandmother thought I'd appreciate an almost-complete set).
So that's where I am now: into the next phase that my mind has taken me, away from the cigarettes and the apathy and the boredom, past the drinking and the getting high, and aside from the sports and the mindless television and crappy movies.
But how long will this last? I can't say. And where will I be when I'm 30? I can't say. At some point in my life, will I fall into one of these segments and ditch the rest? Or will I learn to incorporate all three? Hey, maybe I'll keep on living like this, drifting from one extreme to another: full-blown cigarette smoker to full-time runner to balls-to-the-wall literary aficionado. I can't say [without being uncertain].
Anyways, Florida was...

-Megan pissed me off.
From changing her itinerary because she didn't want to go to church on Christmas morning (instead of arriving on the 23rd and having to do a few chores, she decided it'd be more convenient to have me pick her up from the airport on Christmas day. Also, I'm not Catholic, nor am I religious, but I'll accompany my 92-year-old grandmother to church, especially after she paid for me to visit her. Furthermore, I don't think my [nor her] mind is susceptible to being converted because I attended one mass, if that's what she was worried about) to insisting that she take a shower at six in the morning when the only flight in jeopardy of being missed is the one that would carry me, Wil, and Hank-- an hour and a half before her flight was scheduled to board.
Then there was the Frango mint cookie:
Megan is dating a boy named Jeremy, who's 35 (though only in age an insecurity. As far as maturity is concerned, I'd say he's no older than 17). It's sufficient to say that my family doesn't like him. More than not liking him, we dislike him. It's not just that he's so insecure of his vertical deficiency that he doesn't let Megan wear high heels, nor is our disdain for him derived solely from his drinking problems; it's because he's a little bitch, in a very general way. I could tally all the little things that make up this assessment, but that would take too much time and delve too far into specific scenarios. What it all boils down to is his lack of self-control. Here's what I mean: he gets jealous of Megan. As far as I know, this jealousy is irrational. Megan has never cheated on him, nor has she tried to.
All trust aside, though, this time could be different. Maybe she's not picking up her phone because she's seeing/meeting/banging other dudes? When this plausible/unrealistic situation arises, it's best to call Megan as many times as possible, leaving a variety of Jekyll/Hyde messages on her answering machine.
Anyways, my sister's stupid for putting up with him and letting get away with this kind of thing, but I've digressed. My point was to paint a picture of this guy that can accurately depict the view from my mind's eye, which is very similar to what my mom sees. Here's the story I've been meaning to tell:
Every year my mom makes several different kinds of Christmas cookies, ranging in variety from candy-cane cookies (which are shaped like candy canes and incorporate bits and pieces of real-life, honest-to-god candy canes) to Bourbon Balls (essentially, bourbon and dough).
As our stay in Florida was coming to an end, while Wil and Mom were putting together a puzzle, I was coming downstairs to find a seat on a couch to ingest as much of My Ishmael as I could. As had become my routine, I passed through the kitchen on my way from the second floor to the living room (which is on the first floor). Down I went, spiraling quickly down the metal and carpet staircase, past the bookshelf with the C.S. Lewis and the presidential biographies, through the first doorway (devoid of a door), then immediately to the right and through the next doorway (devoid of a door), and into the kitchen. Within a foot of the entrance stood a cart, and on the cart lay round, tin cookie containers. At this point I was familiar with the contents of each and went for the green tin: Frango Mint cookies!-- always the best choice.
But, oh!, just two left!
and they were mine
unless I'd risk a stomach bereft...
not this time!
nor any other.
So I reached and grabbed and ate the first one whole, knowing a second would be on the way.
But from behind, and slightly to the right, like a tower leaning towards me with searchlights wondering (eye-balling, searching? monitoring?), was my sister.
At first unworthy,
our minds seeing eye-to-eye,
but with her motives ulterior
our differences opined.
"It's for my boyfriend, who no one vouches for aside from me, and, even then, only occasionally," she determined.

To be continued...