I dropped the bomb about my book being published at last and then nothing. For weeks.

I wish I could tell you about all the writing I’ve been doing, but unfortunately it’s been a wee bit of writing and a lot of Other Stuff, none of which you care the least about.

I had a birthday. Now you feel bad that you didn’t care, don’t you? It was a birthday of the Momentous kind. I celebrated by doing whatever I wanted, and by having my best friend come to visit. And then she had to leave, and I cried. I was a danger to myself and others as I pulled away from the United departures at O’Hare. And then I went to Target and shopped my feelings.

So it was a happy birthday, but also—well, with the Momentous Number and the never-seeing-my-best-friend-enough, I have to say that I am still a bit ambivalent about it.

I’m looking forward to next year, though. You know why. No, you do. I TOLD YOU.

Next year, I’m getting a book published. Also, on my next birthday, I’ll be a prime number, if not a momentous one.