This weekend I've spent my time in one of the most luxuriously hedonistic ways that I could have (at least in my estimation): I spent the entire weekend in bed -- reading. I've done this before, usually on winter or summer breaks during school. I became so engrossed in whatever I was reading at the time I reverted to a primordial state of slothfulness, greasy and unkempt from neglect of bodily hygiene, dragging boxes of cookies into my fetid bed as I gnawed through a lengthy tome of can't-put-it-down-until-it's-finished fiction. Ah! How my eyes would squint from lack of proper rest and relaxation! The black printed words burned into my retinas would glow ghostly white on the murky scrim of my briefly closed eyelids. Alternate waves of nausea and exhaustion would roll over me in succession. And yet I must read on! I must finish the task at hand! I must reach culmination of this literary journey -- I yearned for the sweet, sweet conclusion!

Ah. Yes. That's how I spent this weekend. Friday night I stopped by B. Dalton and purchased a paperback copy of "Contact" by Carl Sagan. I've read exactly half of it. Which really sucks because tomorrow is Monday and I have to get back to work. What I wouldn't give for just two more days of glorious marathon reading, blocking out the world and all of it's troubles (and mine for that matter), lost for hours in the glorious act that is pure fiction.