10.25.02 - 3:48 p.m.

I was all happy because a promo DVD of About a Boy arrived in the mail yesterday and then I had to ruin the moment by sneezing all over my keyboard. A massive drop of drool all over the y key. I would have written about it yesterday but I didn't want to have a one-sentence entry.

Hmm, my Neosporin expired in December 1997. Do you think it's still effective?

I can't move. I can't do work. I'm supposed to interview a doctor about mini-strokes at 4 pm, but every time I type the word "stroke," images of dirty moppy-haired men dancing to "Hard to Explain" start running through my head. Excuse me, sir? A stroke is NOT characterized by an aversion to detergent, blatant Ramones fashion rip-offs and swooning of the British press? Oh, silly me. I don't know what I was thinking.

How long can I sit here without doing work? Probably until my interview. It's not like I don't HAVE things to do, it's just that I think I left my brain in the car after lunch.

I like how I can type my first name entirely with my left hand if I want to. And I want to.

When I'm not typing stupid solutions subheds, I'm obsessed with this little cut on my hand. Like when I had the staples in my head and I would finger them compulsively, I'm playing with the tiny shredded edges of skin around the cut line. Need to put Band-Aid on it. Must...not...make...scar.

And in the meantime I'm not writing back to Nicole, even though it's been almost a month since she emailed me, and I'm not faxing anyone their editorial calendars. Instead, I'm playing with my cut and thinking about how much I want a piece of peach pie. I'd SO eat a peach for peace right now.

And having successfully wasted two hours, I will now archive my July-September entries and try and compose my Diaryland Trading Card. Cool.

Pray I do not injure myself this weekend in the Second Great Moving Extravaganza of 2002.