May seventh? Good lord, just yesterday it was May sixth. Where does the time go? As I type this, my body is screaming with the back-to-back workouts I did last night and this morning, and Rob is downstairs in the kitchen sizzling up some bacon.

It’s been a zany week. Three days ago, I hit the highest high of all the highs—no, I haven’t been smoking that you-know-what again, I was high on life, I tell you, LIFE! That was when a little diary entry I wrote, based upon a little idea I had while walking Goblin Foo, made it to the number-one slot of the Daily Kos Recommended list and stayed in the top eight for the entire day.

Three days before that I was taken to the cleaners by an expensive charlatan with a tragic sense of fashion and a harebrained obsession with guardian angels. I may tell you about this one day when my eyes stop rolling around in my skull like the spinners in a slot machine.

And then yesterday: the gym. It was the first time I’d been in years, and luckily it was mostly empty. One of the only other people there was my personal trainer from six years go. I don’t know if he recognized me, but I noticed while watching his vigorous routine that his body looked precisely the same. Mine does, too, of course, a result I owe to a regimen of intense laziness, but what’s his excuse? Thousands of hours spent sweating and straining, only to have his progress frozen in a corporal holding pattern.

At least I have nowhere to go but up.