I am not really writing this column.

I am not really writing this column, because I am on vacation. No papers, no working, and no columns. I am relaxing. I am melting. I am at one with the universe.

I'm on crack.

Vacation? What are you, mad? If you looked up the word, you'd probably find a big picture of me, lying in a shallow grave, clutching one of my bazillion research papers (all due, conveniently, next week), with the words "ha, ha, ha," in the caption. (At least, I know that's what you'll find in the Merriam-Webster edition. I can't vouch for the Encyclopedia Britannica version, although I believe they substituted "hee, hee, hee" for the definition.)

It's too bizarre-- last semester, when I was a whirlwind of potential knowledge, I took nine classes and still had time to work on a novel, watch what I recall to be a great deal of television, and... what was that? Oh, yes-- sleep. This semester, my knowledge all depleted and my attention span whittled down to that of a very stupid gnat, I am struggling to keep up with only five classes. The struggle has been long; the struggle has been hard; and the struggle has only been made worse by the fact that I devote a good portion of my time contemplating various careers I could take up if I flunked out of school. (Possibilities so far include back-up singer for Barenaked Ladies, monkey trainer, and professional chest waxer.)

What happened? Are my professors trying to kill me? Did they plan this? Was there a seminar on the subject? Were doughnuts served? All signs point to yes. But that's beyond the point.

The point is, whether I like it or not, I have to keep up with my work (unless someone takes it upon himself to have mercy on me and hit me in the head with a brick), which means my dream of cavorting by the seaside with a scantily clad cabana boy is, at least for the moment, not to be.

But that doesn't mean I can't take my own little vacation right here on campus. I could sit by the fountain to feel the spray of the ocean on my face, sprawl in the comfy red chairs in the fireplace lounge to simulate the ski lodge experience, stand in line in Convo for three hours for a plate of rigatoni to recreate a little slice of Italy, and gamble like the best swingers in Vegas with the vending machines-- will it accept dollars this time, or only exact change? I'm certain with the aid of mind altering drugs, the experience would be almost relaxing.

I could go on for hours about my need for a vacation. But my work is calling me, mocking me, laughing at me behind my back, and stealing things from my fridge when I'm not looking. Also, I think it's making long distance phone calls to Venezuela while I sleep. So, I'd better get back to it. At least I know that all this work will some day pay off, and I won't have squandered my college days studying for nothing. And if that doesn't work out, I can always fall back on my superior monkey training skills.