It is a bizarre day outside. People are walking around nonchalantly in bumblebee costumes and bloody masks, the wind is ferocious and howls and assaults you with the leaves and trash on the sidewalk around you, everything looks like it’s slightly the wrong color (like someone was messing around with the settings on the t.v. remote and now everyone’s faces are just a tinge too green.) It’s like being in a snowglobe, but with leaves, and on acid.

Tonight is the Wilco concert — hooray. And also, I have a bed! It’s second-hand, retrieved from a distant suburban household by Charlie and I this morning. I can feel my back thanking me already.

Still temping at the same place. I am filing many things. They are spread out all over the floor of my office. People keep stopping by to marvel: “You sure got a lot of folders, there…” When I clear some out, they marvel, too: “Wow, sure is looking better…”

The elevator keeps dinging its Wilco ding: This is not a joke so please stop filing…

The woman in the office next door is apparently in charge of collecting on accounts. She’s very adamant about her job, and she knows how to lay on the guilt: “This message is for Rabbi R—, This is the J— calling to inform you that your check to us has bounced. This is a sin.”

One month, 50,000 words

National Novel Writing Month is just around the corner. According to my temp agency interview today, I type 71 words per minute (which I found myself taking pride in, even as I cringed at my own dorkiness). Those mad skillz will come in handy as the novel progresses. According to my calculations, if I type at a constant rate, it will only take me 23 minutes a day! Although math was never my strong suit (as my sorry attempt at the temp agency math test demonstrated) so I could be wrong.

So yes. Anyway. I am going to try NaNoWriMo this year. And you can watch. And laugh at me. As per usual.

You know it’s been a bad day when you start muttering to yourself. And then you realize that the other people walking down the sidewalk must think you’re a complete loon. And then — even worse — despite this realization, you can’t stop muttering.

In better news, I talked with Brent and Ross, the good folks at the Alley Gallery in Evanston, Ill. They gave me a healthy dose of inspiration, which was much-needed as I trudged off to the library.

When I moved, I realized just how much of a hoarder that I am. Sarah will tell you. I had approximately six boxes filled with papers, books, brochures, sentimental objects (This is from when he gave me a packet of M&Ms. Must save.) And more. Way more. Guilt, apparently, is a motivating factor in this kind of behavior: Why People Hoard.

Eventually I want to create an enormous filing system of everything, like Mrs. Basil E. Frankweiler: “Do you see those filing cabinets along the wall? Those are my secrets…. and I don’t want my files messed up or placed out of order. They’re in a special order that makes sense only to me.”