There's something exceptionally fulfilling about wandering around in the middle of the night, strands of hair turning to icicles, eyelashes freezing together, and no classes the next day. I finally went inside at two and sat up being inane for another hour. Never mind that cancellations weren't officially announced until seven the next morning.

Things are still in full swing, at any rate. The two "party" dorms are constantly having free-for-all snowball battles against each other (which I cheerfully became embroiled in, never mind that I'm from one of the estrogen fleshpots). Sleds are particularly sought after, as there are some extraordinarily tempting hills on campus (though none can hold a candle to the monster in my backyard), but laundry baskets, boogie boards, and trays filched from the cafeteria are also being utilized. Then there are the daredevils who don trash bags like ponchos and launch themselves down icy inclines. Amusing as anything to watch, those...

And, naturally, there are the guerilla groups that pop up. For example, I went to lunch with Bly and her roommate and stumbled into an ambush on the way. Got a snowball to the side of the head and that was that.

There are, as anyone knows, two primary types of snowballs: your typical, hastily constructed mass off crumbling snow that will, as likely as not, disintegrate upon, if not before, reaching its intended target. Then there's the evil twin: spherical structures of hard-packed crystals. These are quite prized by their makers, and it isn't unusual for one to spend several minutes idly honing his or her ammunition to perfection.

It was one of the latter variety, por supuesto, that left my ears ringing and my competitive spirit (marvelously euphemistic, neh?) flaring. What ensued was an amazingly one-sided battle in which I spent a lot of time making the acquaintance of a nearby tree and wishing I knew the fundamentals of aiming. Bly frantically snatched at the snow, yelping, "How do you make it solid?" before recklesly embarking on a valiant kamikaze run that ended in a glorious failure. Her roommate, the smart girl, stayed more or less out of it and laughed at the spectacle we provided.

On an entirely unrelated note, Bly's middle name is Snow. Now ain't that peachy.

By rights, I should conclude this entry with some enraptured exclamation relating to the glory of winter. Except that would just set my cynical heart in action, and I'd be reminded of the fact that I have yet to start Christmas (and I use the term entirely nondenominationally) shopping. Also that I have about five dollars to my name and a retail position to fill this weekend. Pray for me, will you?

Adieu.