Brusha, brusha, brusha.

I've got myself convinced that the entry I wrote this morning actually may get me committed. And I shudder to think of the ramifications had I left in some of the sentences I'd originally written — suffice it to say those long white sleeves tied behind my back would have made future writing a little more challenging.

Life goes on, you know? My moods ebb and flow. A coworker came by my desk about an hour ago, in what will go down as one of the oddest office moments in recent memory. "I heard you'd be the person who might have toothpaste if I needed it," he said. … I mean, sure. I do brush my teeth every day at work. I brush my teeth at least three times a day, sometimes more. Because I like clean teeth. I like the squeaky feeling as I run my tongue between my teeth and upper lip. But does that mean people talk about my dental hygiene at work? Does some woman in circulation see me at 4:15 p.m. in the bathroom, in my Aquafresh haze, then run back to her desk, tittering? Really, how did he know? Nonetheless: Happy to help, sir.

Other things that have made me a little happy, or at least taken the murderous edge off today:

  • Block after block of magnolias, in full bloom, on my ride to the train station
  • A steady stream of life-about-town photos from the Knight to help boost my mood
  • My purple fingernails, still nearly pristine after Friday's birthday manicure
  • Mini bitch sessions on Google Chat
  • Little bites of the Vosges Mo's Dark Bacon Bar from my desk drawer
  • The ticking away of hours and minutes until my birthday dinner with the Knight

It will be OK. It will be OK. It will be OK. Okay?