I don't have anything for you exactly. My hands smell like the green onions I was chopping for the spinach dip I was making for the office Superbowl party tomorrow. Stephen Colbert is a talking head on the monitor that is sitting on the floor beside me, silent and chatty all at the same time. And a cat is licking the edges of her metal bowl so that it rattles in the next room.

I am sleepy.

The class was good. Full of smart women discussing pressing problems. I ate a cheeseburger and changed the HTML body colors on the pages we were meant to compile. I wrote, "Christy is awesome!" with a header 1 tag and changed the background to bright green. Nobody noticed me in my corner. I was subversive and attentive and a thousand other things. And I heard new words like DITA and MAML and now Stephen Colbert seems to be chewing his milk. I enjoy milk when it is cold. I drink it down in great big gulps until it burns too cold.

Have you ever showered outside under the stars? I have. In the rain and in the early morning, in the bright hot sun and in the dark. I've walked down stairs in my pink terrycloth robe and stepped on rough wooden slats, shut and bolted the door with a creak and cranked the shower handle to the side. Never enough pressure to wash my hair clean, always a little grease behind and looking up to see a blue sky and white cotton clouds drifting over my square of steam and water splatter. The boys said it's even better if you drink a cold beer under the hot water; I never tried.

The water made a funny noise as it drained through the boards to the muddy ground below. A patter and a swoosh.