Why won't I go to bed?! I'm sleepy. I'm cold. I have a delicious book awaiting me. All of the good. And yet. Here I sit. Entranced by the shiny machine.

Red letter day, overall. I'm in such a hopelessly good mood. This evening Bathsheba and I went for food. I was starving. I have nothing edible in this house besides rice and frozen spinach. I have been unable or unwilling to leave said house for over 24 hours. Thus. Starving.

Food can be delicious. Have you heard? One of the waitstaff was an old student of Bathsheba's and mine from a fantasy fiction class we helped teach. She was (and is still) beautiful and smart. She told us we were the best TA's she'd ever had. Our egos swelled.

We later went elsewhere for dessert. I ordered two desserts. I was still hungry. But the thought of the nutty Irishman (I do not approve of this name, mind you) sitting in my fridge makes me ill.

Bad news in the Molu clan. My great aunt Marie died on Thursday. No one mentioned this to me until today. Ok. I haven't seen her since my grandfather's funeral nearly 10 years ago. She was a spinster. She spent her whole life taking care of my great uncle Billy (her brother) who was a priest. This is how old-school Irish Catholic families work. My grandmother is still pissed that my dad didn't become a priest. Something about his spot as the second son (in a family of 11 kids!) denoted priesthood. Or something. But, since he was a drugged out hippie who knocked up his girlfriend at the tender age of 19, the whole priesthood thing didn't really work out. My grandmother has only recently deigned to acknowledge my mom as a member of the clan. My parents have been together since they were teenagers. Seriously old school.

My mom has STILL NOT HEARD THE RESULTS OF HER ULTRASOUND. Fucking medical professionals fucking up left and right and up and down.

My brother Dan, favorite brother of mine (excepting baby Shawn) is a raging drunk. Have I mentioned this? No? Well he is. Called my mom at 7:30 this morning. Drunk. He is always drunk at 7:30 am. Do you know how this kills me? 23 years old. One hell of a gifted writer. Beautiful (the only one amongst us you can claim such a thing), smart, hilarious, excellently good-natured and nurturing. And a drunk. Used to be addicted to all manner of amphetamines. Used to drop acid at least once a day. Used to smoke 2 packs of cigarettes a day. Dropped all that. Picked up the bottle. Is there a word for how awful this is?

Ah. I just realized why I cannot get myself into bed. One espresso shot and one cappacino at 9 and 10 pm, respectively, do not a restful evening make. Glad we cleared that up.