First, I must extend thanks and gratitude to Megan of rapunzellstower.com and Kyle of fidgeting.net, whose seemingly-unrelated bug reports, two months apart, provided the solution to an ugly Quarto bug I had repeatedly glimpsed but been unable to personally reproduce.

Silly domesticat. (Most of my bug reports start like that.) Two months of off-and-on hunting for this bug, which consisted of seven characters in one file being misplaced. Which ones, you ask?

Oh, the closing FORM tag.

When I emerged after a rather exasperating day, I found this text file on my computer. It seems appropriate to share it with all of you, since it seems you've been privy to today's events as they happened:

World,

It was a wonderful day, wasn't it? Our toes are dirty and our fur is still warm from the sunlight. But we're hungry, and it's dark, and we both very very desperately want cuddles. My oh-so-silly-brother Tenzing is frantic, half-dazed, desperately rubbing up against the couch and love seat in an attempt to simulate scritchies. I want my ears rubbed, and I think the litterbox needs a touch of tending.

I just hope they speak to us after we unlock the closets we stuffed them in. Better yet, no speaking - just bites of Crunchy Cat Food, perhaps a play or two with the Toy-On-A-Stick. We'll sniff the male one's dinner and then, after he goes to bed, we'll pile up on the bed and help the mommycat with her Spanish-language studies.

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.