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Slow (Definitely Sublight)

Very little has occurred since you last heard from me, as far as writing goes. No returns have come back, and no new work has gone out. About the only thing I have done, really, is make a spreadsheet for a friend to assist her in the writing of pantoums. Who says technology can't benefit poets? Hah!

Not to say things haven't happened. Closing Day (Monday) is approaching, so Lisa and I have (finally) started packing. The apartment is sprouting box piles, which the cats seem to enjoy. They climb to the top of them and meow at the ceiling, at Things Unknowable And Unseen. Ah, to be so easily entertained.

Well, there was this. The Onion's weekly horoscope for my particular sign (Sagitarius) is extremely appropriate. It reads:

"Your remarkable talent for procrastination will result in your winning the Nobel Prize For Literature Thrown Together At The Very Last Possible Minute."
Can't argue with that.

Later: If I've learned anything from keeping this journal, publicly whining about how no editors have written me back is a sure-fire way to get a return. The trend continues: a 35 day form rejection from Absolute Magnitude.