Look at the time. I am almost finished with PTA silent auction sign-making duties, but cannot go to bed for fear the printer will start convulsing or shut down or otherwise destroy all of my hard, crazy work. So I write. But this is not really writing; it's typing words in a fugue state. I will not likely remember any of this tomorrow as I deliver my daughter to her Young Author's Conference before canvassing the town garage sales with my mom. I will only have an overwhelming desire to lie down on a cool sidewalk and sleep, perhaps dream about the yelps of praise I will hear when everyone beholds my awesome bid sheets.
There is something quite wrong with me.