"Maybe I should write an entry. Yeah! Um... okay, let me talk to Charlotte first. Okay, now it's time to write an entry! Except I really should do this filing. And organize the wires of my computer components a little better. And refill my stapler. And now... an entry! Except this would be a great time to vacuum..."

I've vacuumed, cleaned my place, put away all my laundry, hung up a painting, gone for a ride, watched some Olympics coverage, played with the birds, watched my new Buffy DVD, instant messaged with friends, answered email, worked on a paper, had three phone conversations, deposited my paycheck, stopped by Kinko's, and gone out for coffee.

That, my friends, is procrastination.

I guess what I mainly want to say is that I had a great ride today, but I don't know how to say it without coming off as completely obnoxious. Really, I am not going to extol the virtues of exercise or talk about new muscles or calorie-burning or anything irritating. I will try not to dwell on the Glory that is Bicycle Riding. I will not turn into that person.

Ahem. As I was saying, I had a great ride today. The weather cleared up and it was gorgeous out. I headed to the bike path underneath the BART tracks. It was great because I went so much father than I've ever gone before-- it ended up being 8.2 miles by the time I was done. And since the way is so flat, it was a pretty easy ride. And a fun one, not like the rides from hell that involve me getting off my bike to walk every other block.

I didn't intend to do 8.2 miles. I thought that anything beyond six miles might be overdoing it. I've only been riding the damn bike for a week and a half. But I couldn't make myself go home. Every time I got to a stopping point (I'll stop when I get to the BART station... I'll turn around at the next block...) I would keep going. I was just having too much fun, ass pain notwithstanding.

They just opened a new Starbucks a few blocks from my house-- in fact, on the way from my house to the bike path. Which meant I was able to stop there for breakfast on the way home. My friend Megan was working, so she hooked me up with a free beverage. And after I sat there and worked on my paper for a while, I pointed my bike towards home... and ended up on the damn bike path again.

I knew I should turn around and go home and leave myself wanting more, so I'd be motivated to get back out there as soon as I could. It was hard, though!

Eventually I did force myself to go home. I was impressed with myself. It may not be very much (especially since it took me an hour) but eight miles seems like a lot.

The only other thing that happened to me today was that I called work to get my schedule for tomorrow, and some fucking bitch I've never met before answered the phone.

Her: "Hello, Starbucks on Solano, this is Chirpy."
Me: "Hey, Chirpy, this is Monique. Can you tell me what my schedule is for tomorrow?"
Her: "What's the magic word?"

Excuse me? The "magic word"? The FUCK? What adult says this to another adult? It's not as if I didn't make my request perfectly politely. Imagine the tone of my voice being, "If it's not too much trouble, would you mind...?" I was ready to leap through the phone and rip this woman's eyes straight out of her head.

This may have been a slight overreaction.

I said "Uh. Pretty please?" and she said, "That works for me." Can you feel my seething distaste right now? I'm so glad that "pretty please" WORKED for that bitch. I remained silent while she looked my name up. "Oooh, nine to two tomorrow. You got the princess shift!" I swear to god, I have never instantaneously felt such hatred for a person in all my life. I just said, "Uh huh, thanks," and hung up.

I've never met her, I don't know her, and yet I hate her.

This can't be healthy.

Okay, I'll end on a note of non-hatred by posting one of the poems I've been working on. Henry, as I said, is based on a real person. And the speaker, who started out being me, is turning out to be kinda crazy. I love something she says at the end of one of the poems.

These poems have the strangest cadence to them, and they're just kind of odd in general. I can't define the rhythm, exactly, but I know that one exists. Something about them appeals to me, and I'm going to try and keep at it.

Dear Henry,

You invited me over to see your new piano, not realizing how much I've been wishing I could play. Yesterday I told myself I could, walking past the display of the music store on Market Street. I pretended I could play Rachmaninoff easily, or Bach. And I walked into your house and you offered me some wine. I asked you to play for me.

I sat beside you on the slick black bench, turning the sheet music, falling in love with you. And the whole time, I was convincing myself that it was me hitting the keys. Even now I can feel my fingertips sliding against them.

Remember last night, when we sat at your piano? The way I recall it now, it was I who played for you.

None.