In Which I Ramble a Bit

So. The one thing I regret the most about being at school is that I am now four hours away from my kitten. She is darling and snuggly and represents everything I miss about home. But what is it that this really means? Is it all a displacement of fear and anxiety? That can't be everything. If it were, I would be curled up in a corner muttering about cats and my owl, rocking back and forth and staring blankly at nothing...
Or it could be that I'm stuck in a dorm that seems to be populated by dyed blonds, wearing nothing but Pink attire. Having worked at VS for more than a year, not only do I know how ridiculously overpriced everything there is, I am also well-acquainted with the fact that Pink clothes are not particularly fashionable. They are like Juicy sweatpants. No truly fashionable person would be caught dead wearing them.
But enough of that. If I were saying this to my mother she would chide me for being judgmental. I am early in the process of reading Love in the Time of Cholera by Gabriel Garcia Marquez. A month or so ago I read a book called Like Water for Chocolate, written by a Mexican woman, and supposedly a bestseller in Mexico. It was an irresistible blend of evocative recipes, sensual descriptions, and the slightest hint of magic. This has inspired me to read more Latin American fiction. There is supposedly a fantastic element to the ordinary--magical realism. I have yet to encounter any such thing, but I am perhaps a third of the way through...
I think that if I were to write anything it would be something with a breath of magic--of imagined reality. Such a place is where I imagine myself to be... in a perfect world... But can there be a meaningful novel without the awful crash and burn of reality? Marquez weaves the filth of the streets and the horror of poverty into his narrative... and perhaps that is what gives him power. I think it best that I reserve judgment--as my mother would prefer.