Since I've been torturing you guys with long entries lately, I thought I'd throw in something a little more whimsical. Some of these answers won't surprise you at all; some will.

4 things you would eat on the last day of your life:

1. Nigiri sushi (guess I'd better die in Vancouver)
2. Real vanilla ice cream with dulce de leche on top
3. A few squares of super-dark, bittersweet chocolate (Valrhona rocks my world)
4. Linguine with asparagus and cream sauce

4 CDs from your collection that you will never get tired of:

1. Jonatha Brooke, Plumb
2. Steely Dan, The Royal Scam
3. Underworld, Beaucoup Fish
4. Anything by Tom Lehrer

4 movies that you watch over and over:

1. Say Anything
2. Anything by Steven Soderbergh
3. BBC adaptation of Pride and Prejudice
4. Casablanca

The drive to write can be as ephemeral as a smile—fleeting, brilliant, and then—gone. I've put off writing for the past 24 hours in the hope that the need to push words together into a coherent whole would come to me.

Perhaps it's because I've fired off a daunting number of emails in the past few days. Perhaps because I've been a bit tired, spending a bit more time reading, and putting my creative energies into a couple of websites. Or maybe it's just that trying to come up with moves for playing Photoshop Tennis against Noah zap my brain.

It was a dumb, dumb mistake, and thoroughly my own fault. I hate dealing with laundry, and a couple of weeks ago I had managed to finish running all the dirty clothes through the washer and dryer and even managed to fold them up, but my enthusiasm flagged before the clothes were actually put away.

Thus they landed on the floor, by my side of the bed.

I stay up later than Jeff does, and I do not turn on a light when I go to bed, as I dislike waking him unnecessarily. So I walk, in the dark, to the far side of the bed, often preparing to shed clothing as I go.

But this time it didn't work quite the way I'd planned it. I tried to walk over the pile of clothes, and missed. The leg of my pajamas caught under my heel, and when I straightened my leg, I heard the telltale sign of fabric ripping.

Some days, it's just difficult to make up your mind. Go to the Christmas bazaar with a friend, or attend a screening of Hedwig and the Angry Inch?

Me: Hrm…..I'm feeling damned indecisive today. *laugh* I'm sitting here knowing I should make up my mind…but find myself thinking….'mmm, nap, sunshine.'Kat: *laughing* Okay, then I'll make up your mind for you. Amy, you're going to [the for-charity Christmas bazaar]. You will leave the house at 1pm and head over here and we'll go into town together.

Amy: From my spouse: "I think you have your answer, Amy." OK.

Even I, dear readers, can occasionally take a hint. Therefore I showed up, Amy-style.

A world is a very large, yet very small, concept for a child. Vast, in that there are untold many things that children realize they do not know—how to drive a car, the intricacies of insurance, the difference between a first cousin and a first-cousin-once-removed. Yet small, in a way that most adults cannot grasp: for them it's easy to believe that it's still possible to know everything there is to know.

The night before a visitor arrives is always a night of quiet, panicked, introspection. Especially when it's a visitor I've not seen in a while, and if it's someone whose opinion I trust.

Tomorrow, Colter arrives for a short visit. He's headed out east to attend a concert and putting in a side trip to Alabama as a bonus.

Mc and Mc
at Hillcrest, Little Rock, Arkansas, United States by domesticat.
(A picture of us from our last meeting if you're curious—come to think of it, I'm wearing that sweater right now. Full photoset is here.)

His is a friendship filled with memories of every color and shape. Colter, who let me sleep in his dorm room heaven knows how many times during my freshman year while I was distraught over another, floundering, friendship.