Okay. Attempt number three at writing a semi-coherent post. Doesn't seem to be in the cards tonight.

I've found lately that my posts are taking on more of the style of a letter to a friend; I'm starting to have trouble distinguishing between the two, and I don't quite know what to make of the change.

Just hung up the phone—tried to call Brad just now. I'm not terribly surprised he's not home; there's hockey on tonight and I really didn't expect him to be there. Strangely enough—I spent the evening with a large (for me) number of people, but at the end of the evening I found myself wanting most to curl up with the phone while talking to an old friend. Since my east coast friends are well off into dreamland, I thought I'd reach out, out west, and see what was going on there.

Too much caffeine. After bowling tonight, I probably shouldn't have downed that coffee from Barnes and Noble.

Sigh. Have to massage my right hand to be able to type much. A badly thrown ball during one of tonight's bowlfest games appears to have more far-reaching effects than I originally expected. The middle finger on my right hand throbs when I move it, and I can't flex it completely. A quick look tells me it's swelling. Argh—can I do anything without sustaining dumb injury like this?

I may be curtailing some typing for the next day or so while it calms down.

After tonight's bowlfest I drove home, watching the reflective lane markers speed by faster than usual. Something about tonight made me want to get out into the night, roll my window down, and just drive. I hesitated before making the turn off of the main road to take me toward the house—this urge, this wanderlust, to go out and find out where the road ends. To see where it takes me in the meantime, to sing along with the radio in the meantime.

The freedom of open, silent road and a car you've had so long she feels like an old friend. The seat, familiar and—shall we say—conforming? The hush of a lack of expectation—Jeff expected me home at some point, but at no particular time.

This weekend is the local arts festival. I've suggested that we do something a little different this time around—bring blankets and our Hot Death Uno deck and maybe a book or two and soak up some sunshine. The weather's supposed to be beautiful this weekend, and we could all probably use a bit of outdoor time.

I like that idea. I wish Jeff could go with us, but I know that he probably needs to study for his last final, and that my clearing out of the house for a few hours would probably help him immensely.

But, for now, I think I shall sign off and battle a nemesis for a few more minutes. I've been working on a piece I've tentatively titled "Bastille Day," but it refuses to coalesce into something worth printing. Maybe tonight will be the night it comes together. We'll see.