06.16.03 - 10:01 p.m.

It is nearly impossible for me to type right now, since I have to balance the laptop in front of me with one hand and hunt and peck with the other. I can't just set the computer on my lap like a normal person because I have washcloths soaked in cold tea spread across my thighs.

The washcloths are there because the entire length of my inner legs, from instep to cha-cha, are Maine lobster red. I don't know how it happened. Those who spend time outdoors with me know I'm a sunscreen fanatic. Bryan spent the same afternoon in the same sun as me, and is still white as a ghost. I, on the other hand, look like an overripe Ass Peach. My left ankle is swollen. The question that begs to be asked here is of course "What the fuck?"

It was a decent trip, minus the searing pain on my limbs. Which did not stop me from rocking the dance floor like a Sim on Saturday night. Though I did not dance in the cage at the Vortex -- I thought that was an endeavor best left to Senor Stud, the male blow-up doll. Whom I never got to see because I passed out drunk and in pain as soon as we returned to the hotel room.

Everyone is also apparently placing bets and debating on when Dan and I are getting married. I don't even want to discuss that. The beauty EA came back vacation engaged. Suffice to say I feel like shit.

When is it prudent to ask if I can move over to the features cube at work and start being an AE instead of an EA? When is it prudent to ask if they're going to start adding that raise onto my paycheck soon? The editor whose place I'm kinda sorta taking over left on Friday. I've been doing both jobs for months now. Tomorrow is my year anniversary. I don't want to jump the gun, but I would really like that money. And to stop ordering other people's lunches.