It's funny to hear a friend say with correct righteousness that I should be able to stick around a while on a Sunday afternoon, after we've been camping together (with 10 others) since Saturday afternoon (Saturday morning, if you count the driving that started at 7:30), to simply enjoy being.
Yes, well, tell that to my work e-mail account and its 20 new messages.
Count in Friday's 5 to 10 p.m. (of which I can say, I guess, that 70 percent was non-personal time), and you have me, the spacey disaster who had admitted trouble stringing sentences together until this morning.
I slept for almost eight real hours last night, a kind of miracle, but by this point, 8.5 hours later, I'm about ready to keel over.
Curb Girl: what an urban-based accidental journalist accidentally thinks when she's falling face-first on figurative pavement
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