I squeaked my final paper in just barely under the deadline. I had the hardest time with that final project. At the 11th hour, I scrapped what I was working on completely, on the grounds that it suaaaaacked. It sucked.

It was three in the morning when I decided to do a poem instead, and I started to write it, and it too was sucky, but only because I was tired. (It's a poem in the voice of Puck, explaining where he's been hiding for five hundred years.) So I went to sleep and I dreamed that I was telling someone about my new project. In the dream, I said, "Yeah, I'm just going to write some rhyming iambic pentameter instead. I can write iambic pentameter in my sleep!"

When I woke up, I was amused, and maybe a little disappointed that I hadn't actually written it in my sleep. Bummer.

But I did write the new poem in the morning. Isn't that just the way-- you spend a month on something and it comes out terrible, and you whip out something in an hour that's ten times better. I wish I had switched gears weeks ago. Ah well. C'est la vie.

Remember last summer's brilliant Starbucks multimillion dollar slogan? Well I do. It was "Aah... Frappuccino." You think that's dumb. The new Frappuccino slogan reaches new depths of dumbness. It is: "Frappuccino. Get to what's good."

Oh-kay. What does that even mean? I don't get it.

On one of my shifts last week, I forgot my apron at home, so I had to wear our promotional apron. First of all, our promotional apron is a blinding shade of turquoise. And second of all, it has the slogan scrawled across the chest. So there I am with my big boobs and "Get to what's good!" written right across them.

I'm not convinced that the marketing people thought this through completely...

I got a good rejection notice in the mail. (Yes, there is a such thing.) There was a scrawled note from the editor that said it was "an agonizing decision" and I should send them more stuff. Which, of course, I will. Thank you, nice editor.

In addition to all my other projects on various burners this summer, I'm going to try and spend at least one day a week writing. When I'm actually in school it comes very naturally-- but other than one class next semester, I'm not going to be in school anymore. I need to allot myself writing time, so I can write more material for my thesis.

Yes, I'm officially "working on my thesis" now. Doesn't that sound fancy?

Thursday morning. I got up when Ian did, threw on my T-shirt and jeans from the night before, and drove him to the BART station. I stopped at Starbucks to get some orange juice (can't seem to stay away from that place). Then I crawled back into bed, the sheets still smelling like him. I did not set my alarm; I slept for three more hours.

When I woke up, I was grateful for the marks on my skin. In my groggy state, it seemed like the only sure way to know that he was really here. There were kiss marks in places where I could not possibly have kissed myself. It started coming back to me.

I wonder when being with him will stop feeling like a dream, when reality will stop evaporating every time he leaves. I wonder if I even want it to.

"I mean what the hell was I talking about, but I sure wasn't afraid to craft whatever it was that was in my head into poetry."