Tonight, when I walked into my apartment, my roommate asked me what was wrong. When I said nothing, she gave me that "your pants are combusting" look. And she was right: I was upset. I hadn't gotten in a fight with anyone, I am within the normal range of the "behind on homework" bell curve that dominates college, and I have been having a wonderful week. However I was upset, and it took me a moment to place why I was stressed. I was getting stressed out about a book.  A very pretty, fancy book, that I am told is rather valuable, but at it's heart, just a book. More specifically, a book that belongs to me.