You see, I have a medical condition: My supreme manliness." -E.A.

The summer project is coming along well. I've got a nice stack of yellow, non-stick post-its and a basic template for character design in my noggin. Could this be the end of Marion's catastrophic period of writers' block? Well, you know, they say that writers' block is actually just self-indulgent laziness. Most writers suffer it all the time, actually, which is why writing is an actual vocation for some: it can be work.

Chad's party was more of a laid back chat. I didn't have a pen with me, which is a shame, because I recall there were some conversational gems. I received many compliments on a recent acquisition; its creamy white details are already turning a bright, deep blue.

It's back to work for me tomorrow, and I'm glad of it. A week off is enough to make me feel fat and lazy, and I actually miss those stupid birds, believe it or not. Speaking of birds, I'm trying to teach Hannah's parakeet to scream "Rape!". It's not going well. Buddy is a beautiful bird, but he's got to be one of the dumbest as well. Well, brains and beauty are seldom found in the same package.

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