Yesterday it snowed and I collided, on bike, with another biker who cut in front of me like the sidewalk was The Indy 500 and the phrase "crash and burn" is not just a song by Savage Garden. And the only object resembling an ice-pack in our freezer (actually, the only object in our freezer, period) was a bag of my roommate's old mushrooms.

Therefore, my knee is about the size of a grapefruit. Which, if compared to other produce, normally resembles more of an orange and though this is not a big difference, it is enough to give my walk a bit more pirate-swagger.

Not that I'm complaining.

It's pretty ironic that apparently loneliness is contagious.

...

Okay, to make up for that awful joke and science-y link, I give you,
Authors I love write for The New Yorker: Don DeLillo, Ian McEwan, and Dave Eggers.


It has not yet snowed in Illinois which is making me more nervous than Blagojevich's hair on a windy Chicago day. (No, you don't get a make-up link for that awful joke.) The apocalypse is nigh!