My brain no longer has room for non-book-related thoughts. My dreams have become predictable and clichéd. I am turning into a self-promotional machine, my pockets bulging with book cards everywhere I go. Yesterday, I gave a card to the man standing behind me in line at the post office.

Speaking of clichés and post offices, the postal worker who helped me out yesterday was possibly the most miserable man ever to sit in front of a cash register.  His apathy was deafening.  I wanted to shake him and say: “Don’t you realize you’re just perpetuating the cliché of the disgruntled postal employee?”  But then, he was probably too busy dealing with his own crippling depression to care much about avoiding cliché.  In his defense, he was working on the last hour before the post office was scheduled to raise their rates.

In other news, there is only one more day to order THE SCANDAL PLAN at Amazon’s special pre-order price.  See?  Every thought is about the book.  I’ve become a self-promotional whore.  Please forgive me.