Mimosaed!

I ventured back to the WriteByNight headquarters this afternoon to meet with other writers to determine how best to stage a writerly coup and take over Austin (more or less).

Mimosa-fueled writer meetings = Best Idea Ever, even if this did render me useless for the rest of the day (and this is unusual how? I know).

Brian Allen Carr was there and I picked up a copy of his short story collection Short Bus—signed and everything!

On the way back home, I somehow found myself at Central Market, head brimming with rationalizations about how Monday is my birthday, so I was allowed to shop there today. That's the thing about my birthday—even though I'll be thirty-two, I'm still like a five-year-old, thrusting my fingers outward to proclaim "See??? I have THIS MANY years!!!" and making a big old stink about it for the week surrounding it.

I have so much I want to do right now, but sadly, it all requires brain cells and something resembling a stable blood sugar level. Surely I am not the first victim felled by the mimosa-sword?

Ah, well. I always get a second wind—and it's usually a Category 5.