Dripping from my pen.

Walking around the Botanical Gardens today, I saw three people out having some fun: two men pushing a woman riding on a little loading trolley, the red kind used in mailrooms. She was waving her hand in a wide, theatrical manner, so when they walked past, I stopped and said, "No, like you're screwing in a light bulb," and demonstrated the proper regal parade wave technique. And they all laughed, and went on with their way with the woman waving just as I'd shown her to do.

Little encounters like that - like this Sunday, when I saw someone else doing laundry slump against the side of the elevator and told her "Me too," prompting us to discuss the Sunday afternoon don't wanna feeling and resignation against universal entropy until we got to my floor - are one of the simple pleasures of living in a city.

In other news, I'd wanted to get the rough draft of my current WIP done by my birthday, but with my birthday two weeks away and more than 14000 words to write before I get there, I don't think I'll make it. Maybe not even in time for Muskrat Jamboree.

Yes, it's two weeks to my birthday. Mark your calendars now.