Stacy Horn

The trackpad on my Macbook was so stiff I was getting cramps in my hand. Now it’s fixed and I’m click, click, clicking away. CLICK. CLICK CLICK CLICK CLICK CLICK CLICK CLICK CLICK CLICK! Click. (Pause.) CLICKETY CLICK CLICK!!

I want this many dogs. Okay, just one. And a really little one too, please. (There were some little ones down in front that you can’t see in this shot.)

I keep working. I can’t help myself. I’VE BEEN PROGRAMMED BY THE MAN. Actually, I think I just need to catch up with a lot of things I haven’t been able to get to, and then I can feel like I can take a vacation. Then I can relax.

But I should go out and just walk around, get reacquainted with my neighborhood. Every time I go out there I see a store I’ve never seen before. Like Marc Jacobs, who has a store on every block, has opened yet another freaking store and this time he’s opened a freaking bookstore where another bookstore used to be!! Completely insane. I’m pretty sure he’s using the shelves that were already there from the previous owner.

Buddy only talks to me for two reasons: when he wants food and when he wants pets.

It’s never, “I’m really sorry for allowing that waterbug to fly in your face that time. I still feel just awful about it.”

I love when he does this, covering his face with his paw. Except while I’m saying, “Who’s the cutest cat in the whole wide world,” he’s probably saying this.

Maybe. Not exactly Hurricane Katrina, is it?

Whatever is left of hurricane Earl will hit this afternoon. It’s probably going to be nothing but a little rain, alas. While I don’t want destruction it would be fun to have a little weather drama.

I can’t get over that today is my last day. I can’t get over that by tomorrow all my time will be my own again. I can go to the library day after day after day. I can write as long as I want to. I won’t have to stop to run to work. I cannot freaking wait.

This is Fulton Street, a half a block from the Census office. It was shut down yesterday for a suspicious package. The cops looked bored. I remember after 9/11 listening to the police radio. Every few minutes there was another report of a “suspicious package.” Seriously, it was continuous. I listened and wondered how they dealt with it. There wasn’t enough cops in all New York City to investigate every call.