Excerpt from the diary of a Bridbrad

E: copy and paste, copy and paste, at first i really hated it, but now it suits my taste... 

To say that everyone was incredibly confused by overhearing Skip's spontaneous burst into Editor: The Musical is a bit of an understatement. Sandra sat up on her beanbag chair and tilted her head in amusement. Compy kept looking over his shoulder with a mildly agitated nose crinkle, Gladys rocked a little faster in her rocking chair, Bottle hummed some experimental counterpoint underneath, and the whole thing was occasionally punctuated by a far off screech and thud of a door as GREGORY moved from closet to closet. A different kind of Saturday, but not without its own bit of charm. I suppose you could say that for once the rooms weren't rearranging themselves, but rather the occupants had found different ways of inhabiting them. "What's the plan, Bottle," i heard myself call down through the floorboards. "No plans, the best plan of all," came the reply. 

No argues from me, i suppose. Too cold to go check the mail, and i'm not much in the mood for excitement anyway. The last few weeks were a terrifying carnival ride of emotion, so there's a lot to be said for just enjoying the lack of inevitability about anything. Bottle's probably right, tomorrow reverts to being a day. The cynic in me says it will all turn sideways at some point, but for now, this day, the lack of a future, as Bottle often asserts, smells refreshing. As always, thanks for being my diary. 

PS. Now i think i'll give one of those naps Bottle is always raving about a try. It has every potential possibility of in fact being fun.