OK, everybody go look at this now. It will only take a few seconds, honest.

I wrote another story last weekend. It’s not great, but I wrote and posted it quickly so I got to skip the drawn-out anguish of multiple revisions and self-doubt. Got some good fanmail already, too, and one creepy guy who wanted to tell me stories about his twin girl cousins.

Nothing much else too exciting going on. I started to knit a slate-blue scarf out of some very soft half-sheep/half-llama wool. In a perfect world I would be curled up on the couch at home with a glass of wine and my knitting and something luscious on the stereo. (Not Luscious Jackson.) When I got sleepy, I’d just tip gently over on my side and drowse until dinnertime or “The Simpsons,” whichever came first. Anything would be better than having to stay at work, gnawing my cuticles into a pulp from boredom. I would feign illness and leave early, if only I wasn’t supposed to meet a bunch of cronies downtown between 6:00 and 6:30. D. gave me the option of blowing it off tonight, but that would be the second invite in less than a week that I’d pissed on, and I’m afraid feelings would get hurt and shoulders would turn frosty. So.

Maybe I’ll get some tea and walk around the building, looking purposeful, for a while.