The weather doesn't think so, and neither does the calendar. But school wrapped up today, and, even though I'll return once this week to clean up the rest of my junk, I'm done. Let my sustained intellectual ferment commence.
Bonus: two tacky ties for the end of the year.
Double bonus: last night's stress-shunting dream concerned travel, but the night before last's was the year's topper. In a dystopian landscape patterned after Soylent Green, I'm trying to flee a soccer match, barreling my way through a crowd of thugs and miscreants that marches in concentric circles around the stadium. Just when I think I've made my escape, finding an open door in a low-slung building, the futuristic police arrive, truncheons in hand, to administer a beating and get some information out of me. (My mistake: shutting the door on a cop's foot.)
The room goes dark, and a woman in a black dress says, "I think there's something wrong with my foot." It's turning into a pink slime mold, glowing like it's underneath a UV lamp.
I wake up soon after.