At strange metabolic odds with myself this week, the result of an inherently lazy person starting to run. Jog. Dash. Tread. And drink coffee. And stay up late. Cultivating the frequent sensation of wanting to simultaneously nap and leap. It aids 2 a.m. yammerings that first generation NY School is sweetfully decoy by degrees. That thankfully it’s there saying that one isn’t always singlemindedly stroking a horse or stroking that horse algebraically. And being told by a psychologist over beers that we do a good job of analyzing ourselves is either horrifying or a comforting, new disorder. Like not counting little imaginary things, for example my Points disability. Or, more accurately, my lack of faith in points. My troubles include: sports points. Being a teacher and being expected to enforce Points. Edible points otherwise known as spaghetti. My jerk streak says they're just another iteration of heaven.. the leftover carrot/stick of our animal origins. Call me a hungry crank with an achy vastus medialis. Oh let the random air bring me the office sprite bearing sweet, sly meeting-edible things who I haven’t seen all week.

I also learned last night that in spite of lenten promotions, bowling alley vegetarian sandwiches are inedible. Or is that unedible? I was too busy watching the children behind the counter toddling near the deep fryer to notice that my sandwich was a hoagie roll concealing a mess of blue-green sweet relish and a sheet of plasticine cheese. Looked like it was leaking antifreeze.

Discrete’s tonight. Please come. Flyers for the French event are actually made. In advance.