Have I ever mentioned I detest Chicago O’Hare from the very depths of my soul? Nothing good ever comes from this place. Never, ever, ever, ever. As I wait at gate M12 for a flight delayed three hours, with blinding lightening and booming thunder and stalled planes on the runway stretching far as the weary eye can see, I figure perhaps I should catch up on blogging. I’ve been a stranger to for-fun-writing (did I just say those three words together?) and for-fun-reading since January.

As one of my favorite Princess Bride characters would say, to sum up, the last four months have included school, a wonderful week in the mountains of Virginia, graduation (note: sashes are always awkward), Littleton (a North Carolina Community of Excellence and home to my marvelous blue room), and finally home home. It was just best to clear out of the house as my mother was preparing for Genessa’s graduation shindig. Little did my grandma and great aunt know that they would absolutely not be on vacation. Their time in Pocatello was something much more akin to indentured servitude.

These months have also been spent trying to secure the ever elusive summer job. At one point the options included researching sickle cell anemia in the Nilgiri hill tribes of southern India, drugging stressed-out fruit flies and recording how long they survive in North Carolina, working with a global public health organization creating a web-based database of information in London, and interning with hazardous waste management in Idaho. I personally would have preferred the shock value of the last option, but the penultimate choice turned out to be best. So here I am, sitting in Chicago, awaiting the flight to London and a pretty awesome summer doing what I want to do for the rest of my life. (Oh, and lugging Big Blue around the Tube whenever I get there tomorrow should be pretty good. People are going to love me.)