Speaking of goals yesterday, I’m adding another one to my bag of tricks. I’m staying with the 2,000-word daily goal, and I’m adding story goals, which are independent of the daily goals. Only story drafts will go toward that goal, and I’m going to try to write a 10k word story. Most of it will be crap, of course, but I know I need to work on longer, multi-writing-day stories, instead of the shit I’ve been writing.

I’m in the airport waiting to board my flight. I just spoke to Doolies, and she’s safely sitting in her seat. We both got upgraded, so we should be fully rested when we get to Newark for our short drive to Brooklyn and dinner. I’m going to put the computer away since I can’t seem to think straight right now. My brain is aflutter and I need to rest it with a good book.

I have a little time before they serve what I’m sure will be a yummy omelet and the movie “Robots” begins. As I read the New Yorker during takeoff, I began thinking about my writing (what else do I do but think—and talk incessantly—about my writing? One of those thoughts coalesced into the idea of cutting down the noise in my writing. The noise, as I see it now, relates to my counting and objectionable focus on all things related to the count. It might be cute for a day or so, but after that day passes, it becomes mind numbing, even to me, who has a certain love affair with my own writing and witticisms.

I seen to have lots of goals today, the 10k story (remember, that’s a single story—a mini-Marathon, if you will), and the control of discussion of the Goal. Perhaps, I’ll still leave the final paragraph for such discussions, since I still feel the need to share with readers (and my future self) my successes and failures, how I’m feeling, and my squeaks toward the goal. That’s a good word for what my writing is: a litany of squeaks.

I know that cutting out the useless parts of my writing will make it more difficult to meet the (newly two-fold) Goal. To achieve this, I will hopefully begin expanding my thoughts, turning them from what start as short paragraphs into longer, more thought-out (I know, even to me the idea of writing “thought-out” prose is funny) musings.

Since there’s a saying about it never being too early to start (or is that too late?) I’ll begin with today’s entry. I have another fifteen minutes of writing before the movie starts or they serve breakfast. Here’s my opportunity to start part two of the Goal. Or is it part three? I’m confused: (1) write 2,000 words every day (check); (2) write a 10,000 word story (haven’t started yet); and (3) stop counting words and discussing how difficult or easy or downright unfair it is to have to write so many words in a single day (dismal failure as of today). There, I’m feeling better already with my three-fold Goal. Ah, the hot towels are coming. I will continue this after breakfast and the movie.

Yummy airplane caffeine sears through my veins. I stopped watching “Robots” (a rather enjoyable movie) to write a bit more. I didn’t want to waste these hours of forced solitude and reflection, and, of course, the yummy caffeine jolt. The initial jolt doesn’t always last long, and I decided to ride the wave, if you will, take the energy for what it’s worth and turn it into liquid words—wait, that doesn’t make much sense. I’m turning the liquid fuel into electronic words. There we go. Poetic as ever (as he coughs to cover up the fact that it is indeed not better than ever, and, in fact, is probably not even as good as fifteen minutes ago).

Continuing with today’s entry on NEQID (all this talk of goals and Goals can be nothing but an opportunity for me to opine on bettering David, I’ve realized), there’s another rather interesting thought I’ve been having—“Robots” distracted me again, as our heroes are swimming through fallen dominoes. Namely (getting back to the thoughts, not another senseless moment from the movie), I have a tough time knowing when to write, as I am now, sans internal editor, and when to go back with the Big Red Pen (BRP) to fix the words and make the work more sensible and fun (or educational or, hopefully, insightful) to read.

In the before time, the time when I would consternate each word and worry about where the next idea came from (which I, by and by, define as fifteen minutes ago), I would end up editing when I ran out of ideas to write about. I would skip back to the beginning, usually fill in a few interesting spaces here and there, giving the illusion of writing more, and then settle into the middling process of turning the poorly digested words into more exacting ones that better convey my immediate intentions—viz., the intentions I read into the words the second time around, since the inspirational moment that formed them was long gone. In other words (since I don’t seem to be doing a good job of conveying much in the way of information, but instead using lots of words as a mask for the reality of my poorly thought-out ideas . . . but I digress), when do I edit and when do I write?

I tried to tackle this dichotomy (I don’t know why I’m using big words today—especially since I always try never to use words unless I’m absolutely sure of their meaning, which I think I’m failing at here) earlier this week when I spoke about editing the Georges story. I tried to tack on a bunch of quasi-interesting themes to run throughout the experimental style, in the hopes of turning the words I had already written—which, I admit, ran only about a quarter of the number of words I would need to turn that dribble into an actual story—into a fully revealed story. I failed, of course, as I have in lots of my other experiments with words. Most of my stories start out with good intentions, and meander toward the end, as I run out of steam on the first day of writing, and have to force myself to tie words together to finish. You can see this in almost every story except the first two I wrote, which, because of their short length, I was able to pound out in one sitting. Of course, upon reviewing those stories (and that is something I do often, me being a lover and connoisseur of my own words, especially when I’m struggling to find something about which to write), you’ll find that while the words I wrote were, well, interesting (leaving that definition open, as I’m apt to do when I don’t have the will to think an idea all the way through)—again becoming distracted by the movie, showing what appears to be the penultimate conclusion to the movie—and (getting back to my original thought before the emdashes (that doesn’t look like it’s spelled correctedly) and parenthetical—like this one—destroyed the continuity of my thoughts, which related to the “interesting” aspect of my original writing), and while interesting, the stories lacked coherency (no comments about the coherency of this paragraph, thank you very much), and I had no ability to step back and ask myself, truly, what did I want to convey with the story and what did I want to get across.

In my most successful writing piece, The Flying Termite (or something like that, since I don’t have internet access on the plane, I can’t—thankfully, since I’m sure it’d be a distraction—log in and see what it is called, something I’ll rectify hopefully before posting), I had a chance after writing most of it (an arduous process that, after easily writing the first half after getting over some initial bad starts), to go back and turn it into a story. Of course, the first comment I got (from a reader that Chuck chased away with his nay saying, something he still, I’m sure, to this day feels terrible about), was, to paraphrase in quotation marks, “I usually like your writing, but I didn’t understand what the point of that story was.” This was after I had gone through the story with a fine-toothed comb, and Doolies’s well-trained ear, and turned it into what I thought was a fine piece of literature. Now, I’m not saying that the story didn’t have a point, what I am saying, and have been trying to say for the last three paragraphs (and doing a terrible job at it—do you see what I was talking about with my disgusting editing?) is that I don’t understand the purpose of the edit. I either do too much of it, not enough, or the wrong type when working.

My real problem (again, starting a new paragraph because the last one ran over—I’m not sure if these comments should be excised like the counting, of which I’m past 1,500, if you were counting—d’oh, I did it again) is that I can’t turn off the editor and turn back on the writer. Once I start going back to edit (like I’ll eventually do with this piece—just kidding, this is what it was, except for some spelling and grammatical and this-should-be-funnier changes), it’s difficult for me to continue adding new stuff. It’s the adding new stuff after the editing has begun where my problems lie. That and the editing and writing. I’m not making much sense now. Too much caffeine and too much time brings me to this terrible but amusing (at least in my small brain) place.

I again have to thank small places with nothing to do, and, not to look a gift-horse in its mouth again, the yummy affects of caffeine, for this burst of creative energy that I mostly wasted on the above dribble about writing. I don’t know which is worse: keep track of word count and describing how I feel about it in musing form when I should be writing, or endlessly recounting my writing woes in a barrage of ill-thought-out and purposeless paragraphs and then, adding insult to injury (which I think is a beautifully crafted cliché, if you really look into it), spending paragraphs berating my efforts at writing about writing.

I don’t know why this type of writing is easy for me. I haven’t written so many asides in a long time, and I miss it. I’ve been relegating myself to my straight prose. Part of the problem, I’ll admit, is that I haven’t read much DFW in a while. He always seems to bring the worst out of me. His verbosity inspires me to incredible heights, and I take refuge in the fact that if he (an admitted genius—I’m the one admitting it, not him; although he probably, if I pushed or shoved him, assuming his bodyguards would let me get close enough, admit his own genius) can write what he’s thinking, repeating himself endlessly to get across a point, and hone it to a sharp point, and then stick it into the reader repeatedly, with beautifully crafted words (I know, I know: crafting words is an improper use of the verb, but I like it so), then why can’t I, a terribly inept and struggling (in every sense of that word) writer not do the same occasionally? Now, applying this inane style to a story or even to a more free-flowing musing would be interesting, and something I have not found a way of doing, as of yet. If I went back and edited this, it would be ground into a dull point of one one-thousandth size, and the reader would probably be a happier person for it.

I’ve had this argument with myself often (resisting the urge to self-deprecate about talking to myself by talking about my resistance instead of the prod): how can I tell a story in my own voice, with my own terrible idiosyncrasies (trying spelling that word without the help of Word’s dictionary!), and still be able to edit the prose when it’s finished. I mean, how do I know what to cut, what is charming and what is, for lack of a better (as my caffeine energy fades, I find myself reaching for the shift-f7, thesaurus, key to find a more unusual word, which slows my cadence and gets me thinking about what I’m writing and how, perhaps, I shouldn’t be saying what I’m saying because it’s not all that interesting—ugh, the inner critic/editor/the Demon Carl (or is it Larry?) at it again) word, idiotic about this type of discussion. Now, using this voice to actually say something is the first step. I can use this voice to type and type and get not much accomplished, like now, or use it to create a character that is me, but is also someone else. Ugh. I’ve reached the end of whatever train of thought I got on. The conductor is directing me to the door and asking to see my passport because he doesn’t believe I belong in this place. Sorry, sir, I’ll take the first train out of here and back to David-ville.

I’ve blown way past my Goal for the day (only the word count goal and not the story or lack-of-counting goal), but I still want to say more. I think I brought this up earlier above, but there’s something about being trapped inside a place for a number of hours that is strangely (and beautifully) freeing with my writing. I’ve written some of my best words in airplanes or airports. My favorite “voiced” story, the beginning of The Flying Toe Stomp (i.e., before my inner critic and hated editor got her—it’s obviously the female aspect of my Neanderthal brain because of her evil ways—grubby claws into my words and ripped them apart until the voice disappeared along with my failed attempt at telling my story. But I digress, as usual.

Now, I’ll need to take a quick bathroom break and hope that when I return to my seat, I can continue my tirade on the benefits of being trapped in small places, and flying more often (in first class, of course), or taking more trains, or perhaps it’s the getting up early, or not sleeping ten hours a night that’s given me the burst of energy. Whatever it is, I have to find it and bottle it and yank it out when I have something to actually say, instead of this shit. Such beautiful, wasted words, it’s the story of my life, you know. Now, without further ado (whatever “ado” happens to be), I’ll be right back (or BRB, in IM or video game lingo).

I’m back, not much worse for the wear. The “Robots” movie has long since finished, and an episode of, what I first thought was Friends, but quickly realized was Joey (the spin-off of Friends, which I’m not sure if it’s still on television thanks to NEQID) is now playing. This is less of a distraction as I try to claw my way back into whatever strange thoughts I was having before I was rudely interrupted by my bodily needs.

Oh, yes, another one of my favorite topics (by god, I’m talking about terribly uninteresting stuff to what I should safely assume is everyone but Future Davids) of yummy caffeine. It seems there is a happy middle ground of how much I should drink and when. The airplane coffee, which was exceptionally tasty, especially for black, virgin pot coffee, was in the right form. I think adding the incredible sugar from the mochas creates a fake affect: at first, the sugar rushes hits me, which is followed slowly by the caffeine rush. When the sugar rush ebbs, I begin to think that the yummy caffeine is ebbing along with it, and sometimes, mistakenly and usually on weekends when I have more free time than writing energy, try to cover the falling caffeine with yet another shot of caffeine. This leaves me in a precarious place, as too much yummy caffeine races through my system and leaves me drowning in energy and anxiety, a condition that is not, in any way, shape, or form (check out that cliché in written form) conducive to writing.

The ideas that earlier flowed from my brain like oil across a wet noodle have slowed. The caffeine-fueled energy has slowed with them and I’m thinking this might be a good time to take a break from this silly writing adventure. I’d love to return to fifteen minutes ago, when I was in an ecstatic writing zone, where every word that came across (even the words in the parenthetical, which, even now, I’m not embarrassed about, but just slightly amused in the way parents are amused at how their babies shit, or so I assume, since I do not have a shitting machine yet) felt real and actual and I could go on and on, repeating myself endlessly and in new clever ways about every and any subject. I felt like the monkey. You know the one, the one I was talk about, the million monkeys (I guess it should have been “monkeys,” but I have problems imagining myself as more than one person, even understanding that I have all these voices in my head that are still screaming to get out—a condition which, I assure you, is not sufficient to get me locked into an institution of not high education. But, continuing with the monkey theme, this is what I imagine those monkeys feel like when they pound on their typewriters, not understanding a word that comes out, not bothering to reread or even worry about the message that they are conveying across the paper (or, more probably and efficiently, the computer, which catalogues and searches the monkey’s output for meaningful English, or for that matter any language with the same alphabet as the keyboards, words or phrases or even stories).

But I’m not a monkey. I’m the monkey and the editor, and I need to find the right switch to start both of them in motion. Like today, I occasionally find the one that starts the monkeys banging on the machines, but I usually waste that button on senseless writings like this one. Okay, I’m going to start with the self-deprecation of today’s writing. I think it was a useful outing for me. I would have liked these words to have been a story or something (hehe, I said something), but I think I’m too hard on myself. I’m trying to find something in me, I’m trying to actualize (ugh, there’s a terrible word—the guy sitting next to me is writing/editing what looks to be a book or pamphlet on self-help; it either relates to sexual or work-life, the different parts I’ve eavesdropped (or peeked, I guess is the more accurate word), relate to those two subjects. What I wanted to convey in this aside is that “actualize” would be a word that he would use, and probably had used, although I did not witness it in my readings, and not a word I appreciate or usually bring out of my repertoire) myself and figure out what makes me tick and how to get over whatever boundary it is that’s keeping me from achieving my goal. Notice I used the lower gee (I really need to find a page that accurately spells out all the letters for me—I enjoy speaking of them in the abstract, but find myself unable to spell them without the clunky quotation marks; I discussed this and reported back where I did find a page that spelled out the letters, but I doubted the veracity of the page) for that goal. The goal I’m speaking about in the lower gee sense is my ultimate goal: writing something worth reading (and, in continuing in that vein, something worth publishing, and perhaps worth buying, but I’ll save such materialistic thoughts for my daydreams, where I’m lying on the beach, pounding out my 8th novel of the year—such a warm, happy feeling that gives me). I wish I was heading toward that goal quicker, but there are too few days like this one, where I can open up the spout and let it all hang out. And there are even fewer days like what I’m sure won’t happen later today or tomorrow, where I take everything that was hanging out, and stuff it back into my pants so people can appreciate the bulge, but not think it too vulgar. Now that, I must admit, was one of my better analogies. Kudos to me.

This is going on and on for me today. I think the 2,000 word entries have really helped me open up my writing, at least in musing form. The comfortable airplane seats (this is first class, so I don’t have to worry about the guy in front of me pushing his chair all the way back—which he did, but no worries—and stopping me from typing, or perhaps letting me type in a hunched over position, where each paragraph I squeeze out causes me incredible back, wrist, and shoulder pain), the warm coffee (I mean yummy caffeine, of course, even though the coffee was rather tasty, as I indicated before—as if anyone in their right mind read through this entry and found both accounts of my drinking coffee; I doubt I’ll ever have the patience to read through this garbage, even assuming I stopped right here and didn’t write another word), and the forced solitude, with no where to go, and no internet as a distract, have really helped me output. Back when I decided to write, I invested in my G4 Mac. It was expensive, but the keyboard felt great, and I was interested in trying out the later forms of the OS.X operating system. While I didn’t skimp on buying the cheaper, white plastic version of the laptop, I did skimp on the system specs, and, in particular, the wireless card. I had been using wireless cards for a bit, and I understood how valuable they would become over the next couple of years, but I feared that having access to the internet at all times would slow down my writing. I’ve used the excuse that the internet allows me to do spot research (which it does, to a lesser extent), and also let’s me access (at least using my work computer, which I’m on now) a more elaborate dictionary connected with Word when necessary. These payoffs, of which I knew a bit at the time of purchase, I decided outweighed buying the wireless card for my Mac. A month after I purchased it, I found myself in the too-cool-for-words (and therefore, becoming less cool every day, but at the time I was riding the wave of coolness, which I’ve since cooled on), Apple store and bought the wireless card, which fit nicely into the battery compartment.

Since I write most of these entries (including this one—as I think I’ve already mentioned, but I’m sure nobody, again, has read this far, so I don’t mind repeating myself even if it’s only in the previous paragraph, a paragraph happy I am happy to admit, was too long for my tastes) on my work computer with the internet built in, I tend to browse the internet instead of writing. On airplanes, this addiction is controlled, since (thankfully) there is no internet available. The airlines, regrettably, are discussing adding wireless access points to airplanes, but I’m sure the expense will be too great for me to buy one in the next year or so, making these flights, at least the ones where I’m upgraded, still the best opportunity for writing. The only better opportunity, I would think, would be the outmoded trains, where there is definitely no internet, and the soothing motion and frequent stops, and adequate leg room, not to mention (although I will in a moment) comfortable seats, would allow me to write in probably more peace than I even find in the first-class cabin of airplanes.

What I meant to get to, in my torturous way, is that I need to do better with my addictions and my writing time. I shouldn’t have to wait until I’m taking a cross-country flight to write this many words. I also need to write these words about varied topics, not always just sticking to writing-related NEQIDs, but branching out to other NEQIDs, and, not surprisingly, stories that I want to tell. Let me correct that. I don’t have many stories “I want to tell.” I want to tell stories, but they’re not inside of me struggling to break free. I’m sure my imagination has plenty of fodder, but I still feel like I’m yanking out unborn stories in an attempt to get to the aforementioned little-g goal (I like that: LGG, little-g goal). I don’t know what it is about stories, but I love the idea of telling them. To be honest (and when am I not honest when I write here?) I’ve never been a terribly good storyteller. I have my moments, especially when I tell the same story multiple times, rearranging parts, inflating other parts, and seeking to find the funny, but those moments are rare and far apart. I like hearing stories, of course. And that is really what’s getting me into this business (although this is still, technically, a hobby, I spend more time on it than my regular business—well, perhaps not more time (since that would suppose I didn’t spend approximately one hour a day writing my 2k of crap lately)—but certainly more brain energy on it than my job (don’t tell anybody! Seeing as nobody will ever read this far, I guess I don’t have much to worry about that) or most other aspects of my life, except, of course, for Doolies, who I spent tremendous amounts of energy on in entertaining, talking to over the phone, playing video games, and loving (there you go, Doolies, an ode to Doolies stuck in the middle of a verbose and inane musing—I know for this one, harping yet again on this point—you will certainly use the find function to avoid having to muddle through the reams of this crap.

Every time I move on to a new paragraph, I get that shaky feeling in my stomach, like, maybe this time I won’t have anything new to talk about. It’s worse in my story writing. I’m thinking if I stay on the same paragraph, or, at least, the same part for a while, I can find solace in knowing I won’t have to think of anything new to say and certainly nothing interesting to get across. This gets back to OT (original thought), of which I always say I talk about a lot, but which, in actuality (another overused phrase that adds little to the sentence), isn’t well understood by me, and, therefore, poorly explained in these long-handed musings. It’s what happens when I write the first part (or two) for a story, and then I spend the rest of my time editing that part, making it sparkle, only to give up and never go back to finish the third (or second and third) acts. I don’t want to think, or make decisions, or see something actually happen because then I might fail, or I might have to work, I might have to might (how about that for not making much sense as I approach quickly the end of this flight with mild trepidation because I have said so much, or at least written so many words when I was, I’m afraid to say, almost reluctant to again open my computer for fear that I wouldn’t have anything to say; a fear, which when I look back, is rather silly for the simple reason that I just drank an entire mug of yummy caffeine in a flavorful and sugar-free form, and I was trapped here. The best thing I ever did today was take off the earmuffs and put aside “Robots” to set down my thoughts; how I wish my thoughts were directed at a story! I know, I’ll stop complaining and close this parenthetical to get back to whatever ridiculous idea I was trying to get across to my mind-numbed readers). Ah, it appears I didn’t have a point, finishing the last part before the parenthetical with I might have to might, which, as I’m sure you’ll realize is a ridiculous statement.

I heard something about a snack being served soon before we land. It’s already noon (right-coast time), which means we should be landing in around an hour and a half. Actually, that’s got me thinking. I still have a lot of time to screw around on this page, so maybe I shouldn’t do I what I was slowly building up to in this paragraph, viz. (there’s a Latin abbreviation you don’t see often: viz. means namely (it stands for an actual Latin word, but me, not being a scholar, have no idea what that word is); along with e.g. (for example), and i.e. (that is), I have a full quiver of useless Latin abbreviations to throw out there and annoy my readers with, ala DFW), that I was going to halt this writing and continue my stretching and OAA (other airplane activities), such as getting through my New Yorkers (I brought three on this trip, which, if I can get through them, will put me in striking distance of catching up on my New Yorker reading—which, for me, means only being around 2 or 3 magazines behind) or jumping back into the wonderful book Motherless in Brooklyn (do you remember the time when I used to actual provide links to all books and other useful information in my musings? Even forgiving that I don’t have an internet connection and therefore can’t look up an Amazon link, I won’t go back and do it before I post this musing. It’s either that I’ve grown terribly lazy or, more probably, I’ve discovered that people who read these things don’t actually want to click on links unless it’s meaningful—i.e., they don’t shop in Amazon and immediately buy any book or movie I mention, much to my chagrin—and by meaningful I mean another website with more interesting information (which obviously isn’t a difficult task compared to this website) than this one.

Again, the beginning of another paragraph gapes in front of me (not sure about gapes there, but it certainly does look pretty). I’m almost pooped (as in tired not the other type of poopy), and I’m getting ready to call it a morning. So, this is what it feels like to write over 5,000 words—which, I’ll stop asking if you remember and I’ll assume you don’t, since I’ll tell you either way, Tamer’s girlfriend Tamara, now fiancé, the prolific and successful television (or is it screen?) writer told Tamer (you just can’t make up closer names—well, I guess two Pats marrying would be closer) that she wrote over 5,000 words a day. Not that this took me terribly long to write: I’ve been writing only for, what I’m estimating probably on the high side, was the last two hours or so. If I had had a real topic to discuss that didn’t relate to my problems with writing or NEQID (since there’s no way I can repeat this conversation every day), this might have bee more difficult. And, continuing with my ifs, if I had removed the parenthetical and asides that, while making this more of a David-style writing, doesn’t add much to the context or meaning or story of this writings, it would have been much more difficult to get these words across. This is a marathon session because I could talk about anything that crossed my mind and not worry about either tying it to a theme (which is laughable—since I almost never have themes) or connecting it to a story. I guess there are just days where it’s easier to be prolific or, more probably, days where all the stuff in my brain is pushed forward and propelled by caffeinated nervous energy onto the page. Today is a day like that.

I did have something else I wanted to say, but in finishing my last paragraph, it escaped my mind. This is not terribly regretful, since I’ve spent this most of today writing for the sake of writing, and not to convey anything. Oh, I think I now remember. It was about editing and what it would do to this piece. Well, that might have been it, but if it was, I don’t exactly remember why I would have brought it up or what I would have hoped to accomplish.

So far, there are no sketches or stories today. I’m okay with this, as my energy wanes, and reading looks like a better option. Perhaps I’ll thumb through the words and see if I can read them. I’m rather curious what I wrote, since I barely remember what I was talking about in the previous paragraph. I don’t know if this is a sign that I am letting go and writing what I feel, or something more related to my not caring about what I’m writing. Either way, this feels good, and I’m going to try to apply this good feeling to other aspects of my writing. With that, I’ll provide the count, since this is the last paragraph for this entry (I might split this in two—I wrote the first part in the airport and the start of the flight, and the second part after the caffeine jolt; I’m sure you can tell the difference), and I allow myself such discussions under the newly penned or named Goal (big-g). Words since this morning: 5,924 words. caffeination: yummy mug of Timonthy’s Custom Roasted Milano Blend Gourmet Coffee (I had to get the actual name because it was so good—they supplied us with a menu to choose our breakfast food, and forgot to pick it up when they took our order), black with nothing in it. Okay, I’ll go back and replace the little x with the word count, even though I don’t want to. I want to stay in this mode, I want to continue writing and writing and feeling the way I do in this moment. Maybe I’ll start a story. It’s clear that I need to close this musing. I’m pushing 10 pages, and the word count above (which is accurate and includes these words) is obscene, even for the aforementioned professional (i.e., real) writer. Okay. Enough babbling. If I want to babble, I’ll babble in another document in a more traditional story mode (or perhaps not that traditional at all—god damn (not the God, more like a god I’m damning—sorry people who believe in the invisible, intangible, unseen but probably green skinned, omnipotent one), this feels good and right and is making me terribly happy. I’ll stop now. Sorry. Again. Look above for yummy word counts.