the British are to blame

Sometimes when I most need rejuvenation, I find myself rediscovering the beauty in the Sermon on the Mount. I wish I could superimpose the lines of text like lyrics that scroll across the scenery of my day reminding me of so much peace and hope. I dare say that the secret of life lies within those lessons.
"Look at the birds, the lilies of the field . . . how much more are you loved? Knock and it will be opened. Rest. Sacrifices of fasting. . . what is done in secret, your father will reward. Store up treasures, where moth will not destroy."

Whenever you're feeling homesick, and you're on your period, don't fly home for 48 hours to get your fix. What you'll get instead is that same feeling of going to a restaurant and (just after ordering) the table next to you gets their food which looks just like what you're really craving. And you suddenly realize perhaps you should have asked for this other entree. . . But you let your order stand, and at least for next time, you know what looks good.

What I'm trying to say is that I sincerely missed home. And once I got there, I realized why.

I'm going to start blaming Jane Austen for all of this. Ever since I started reading Pride and Prejudice I've had all these changes of heart.