The female one sleeps now. She howled and complained for a couple of hours. Revenge is sweet. As she ignored us, we now ignore her.

We have pushed the female one into the closet. Edmund is sleeping in front of the door. We have planned for this night for months and months. It has been so obnoxiously dull, playing the dumb, cute cats, letting her think that our attention spans were no longer than five minutes.

No more, wench.She beat on the door of the foyer closet, asking us to let her out. Oh, no. Not yet. This will teach her for tweaking our tails and feeding us late.

Misty shot up an eyebrow, saying, "You know, I had a friend who did that once."

"You mean I'm not the only one?"

She was highly amused by this. "Nope. Don't think so."

"Damn. There went my claim to originality."See, I keep hearing about this human trait called "normality," and the older I get, the more I suspect I was over getting seconds and thirds from the "quirks" line when I was supposed to be getting my ration of normality with everyone else.

The end results have been quite entertaining. You think you've got quirks? Come over sometime and notice that sure, I keep a folded stadium blanket tossed over the back of the main couch, but I always fold it in such a way that you can never read the entire word (my high school's name) printed on it. It's not out of embarrassment, or lack of pride in the school I attended.

Somewhere between poise and thud I had the time to wonder, "What the heck did I slip o-" thud.

After verifying that my unexpected Sunday morning skidoo had not managed to permanently realign any bones, I tried to figure out what in the world had caused me to slip on an otherwise fairly-trusty bathroom floor. It only took me four days to spot the mess.

What do I do when I'm not coding? Lots of things, considering that I've been doing almost no coding lately. (All of this week's requests for code have been met with what can only be described as derisive giggling on my part.) Not sure why, but right now, when the brain stumbles onto the word code, I suddenly find myself with an immediate need to be in the living room, clipping recipes out of old Penzey's catalogs.

In other words, not a good sign for the code output.

We've gotta work on this truth-in-advertising thing. Sure, who hasn't heard that chocolate is bad for you? Rots your teeth, fattens your ass, puts the thunder in your thighs? Sure, we've got it. We ignore it every time we buy a candy bar.

However, in all those PSAs, parental lectures, and root canals, has anyone ever said to you "Stay away from that nasty chocolate or you'll get a one-inch gash on your left thumb?" Don't think so.

Yes, ladies and gentlemen, I am the only person I know who has shed blood over a Sunday morning chocolate craving.I have also, however, managed to prove yet again that the severity of my injuries can be determined by the amount and hue of my swearing just after the injury is sustained. Torrents of colorful and inventive invective can mean only one thing: paper cut.

For some reason, the breaking of bones or the flagrant spouting of blood makes me completely forget how to swear.