Seven times five

It's my birthday. I have turned 35. I'm taking the day off and driving to Binghamton. I will be doing radio as part of a marathon.

I have been working way too much. I worked fourteen hours -- arrived at 11:15 a.m., left at 1:45 a.m. and only paused about half an hour. I tried working from home yesterday and pulled about 13 hours.

I have never worked so hard in my life. I've done harder physical labor, such as stocking paint for a whole day. (Hint: five gallons of paint feels like it weighs as much as the house it'll go on.)

I am recovering from a cold and pink eye. Yes, conjunctivitis. The nurse called me back and said "I'm looking for the father of Dante..."

"No, I'm the 34-year-old with the pink eye."

I need to sleep. Then I'm going to drive.

If I haven't said this enough, lemme try again: I need to be socialized and rehumanized. If you can think of options for next weekend, please let me know.

Oh, and I forgot to tell fangirl715 to save me a zeppole and I'll pay her back. It's Saint Joseph's Day, you know.

It's also the last day of winter. When you hit my birthday, we've made it. Saturday at 1:32 PM EDT we'll be officially done with a weird winter.

The swallows are coming back to Capistrano. I imagine they swing through next-door San Clemente to poop on Nixon's grave.