Fireworks. They're exploding fireworks. But at the moment I prefer it without the direct object.

Number of Times I Have Been Late to Class / Meetings: Sadly, One.

That was Friday morning, after I e-mailed my story at 9:07 a.m. and then trundled down to class. And the fact is, if at 8:52 I'd known how to cry "Uncle!", how to get my critique moved, how to explain why I was going to skip class and just curl up in the fetal position on my bed, I would have done all those things. But I didn't know the procedure, so all I could do was turn in the typo-ridden, non-edited hunk of goo and go sit behind my name card yet again.

For the record, I still don't know the procedure.

OMGINaD Moments / DCiSS: Three / One

Yoga Sessions: Five

Caffeine Intake Level: Medium

Sleep Deprivation Level: Medium (on Friday that was, of course, High)

Homicidal Tendencies: Nihil

Number of Stories I've Critiqued: Thirty-six

Number of Stories Submitted for Critique: Three (one to be critiqued Monday)

Level of Satisfaction with Current Story (Stories, actually) in Progress: Medium

Number of Times I Was Asked to Read the Role of a Woman Chattering about Her Engagement During Thursday's Found Dialog Exercise: Two

And then the next day there was this message from S, my lovely former colleague:

I had the strangest dream the other day – you were getting married and for your bridal shower, all you wanted to do was go to Kentucky Fried Chicken.

Okay, here is all I have to say about that, and I direct my comments not to the people involved (who are swell), but to the forces of synchronicity running loose in the universe: fuck you and your plum pudding.

Number of Nights Spent in My Own Bed: One

Update: E asks, "Is it just me, or does the phrasing "Number of Nights Spent in My Own Bed: One" make it sound like "the narrator is making the rounds in other people's beds? Wink wink!" To which I respond "you, plum pudding, etc." And add the clarification, "That's My Own Bed in My Own House and Not the Sorority House, Okay? Sheesh."