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Ray. The two upper teeth are officially both in now. Ten days to birthday and counting.

Suckage. Eesh. The folks I work for have introduced a new product…something that was supposedly going to change our workload from 300 apps a day to a thousand. We laughed. Shouldn’t have. We’re up to 600-750 apps. a day. Workload capacity before product: 400 apps. Walkouts since product introduced: 2 people, or approximately 60 files.

Ins and outs, ups and downs. Out: Name of the Feather, by yours truly, to Alfred Hitchcock’s Mystery Magazine. In: Things You Don’t Want… from Wierd Tales, with a subtle put-down “so what’s the point” letter. Since Lee passed Things You Don’t Want as wierd-but-good, I’ll take the rejection as being a) too literary or

Btw The joke last week, as donated by a co-worker, was: “Why was the ink blot crying?” “Because his mom was in the pen and he didn’t know how long the sentence was.”

The Horns of a Dilemma, or, Chew through the Damn Rope and Break into the Hay Barn So Ray’s walking around in the kitchen, spots a loose goldfish cracker, and shoves it in her mouth, not noticing that I’m offering her a piece of yogurt bar at the same time. She looks up. Puh! Out

Project. Why? I don’t know. It’s just one of those things, you wake up and you know. I had a dream that I was cross-stitching a nudie picture. I haven’t cross-stitched in over a decade, I guess. Nevertheless. The’s an ant crawling over my pen box. Why is there an ant crawling over my pen

Anniversary redux. Familiarity breeds. Content. (No, I’m still on depo.)

Review. Anthem, Ayn Rand. Given a choice between Anthem and Atlas Shrugged, which would you pick? I know, I know, I make the same choices when it comes to Bartleby the Scrivner and Moby Dick, and Finnegan’s Wake and Ulysses. I read the slim volume that isn’t the masterpiece. And in some cases I’m probably

New toofer. Ray’s working on a new tooth. It must hurt worse than the other ones did — what a grouch! (I catch myself thinking that from time to time and have to laugh. Grouch? Ray? At her worst all you need to do is pick her up and snuggle. Or dance a little. Or

Feel good. I’ve been meaning to send a copy of “Lanes of the Living Dead” to the tabloid the Sun, which publishes short, pulp-type stories. Submit and go forth! I got the address from a friend of mine at work, but it was the address to a similarly-titled magazine. Luckily I checked out the website