The long weekend happened.

Apparently. A few days just vanished into the abyss. You know? I'm concerned about the abyss. It didn't really feel like that much time went by.

This morning so far: a recap.

6:50: Wake up. Lie in bed for one minute. Look at clock. Realize I can go back to sleep.
6:52-7:21: Try to get back to sleep. Become convinced the air conditioning in my apartment is suffocating me with its disgusting, stale smell. Open window; turn off air conditioning; still can't get back to sleep.
7:22: Get up. Yes, my alarm clock goes off at 7:22. If there is one thing I have learned from my father, it's that there's no reason to do things only at times that end in :00, :15, :30 or :45.
7:23-7:33: Defrost and toast bagel. Check email. Burn bagel. Decide not to eat burnt bagel.
7:34-7:50: Get dressed. Brush teeth.
7:50-8:20: Go to the bank. Go to work. Bank is necessary because I need Tim Horton's for breakfast, but the T-Ho's in CAB only takes cash, so the morning has suddenly become more complicated.
8:20-8:28: Get breakfast. Get to work relatively on-time. Too hot to drink coffee.

(That's right, I wake up at 7:22 to leave my house at 8 and get to work at 8:30. I do this because there is almost nothing that is more important to me in the morning than sleeping, so I have reduced my morning schedule to its fastest, most minimalistic possible format. 7:22 is the latest I can wake up and still get to work on time looking not-disgusting.)

Also, in order to get to my current position, in the past hour I have gone: down nine stories in an elevator, down one flight of stairs, down one escalator, up three escalators, down one flight of stairs, up two flights of stairs, down one flight of stairs, up six stories in an elevator, and then up one more flight of stairs. I'm so tired. Not because it's physically exhausting, it just seems endlessly complicated. I feel like I'm staring into the abyss.

I'm at work and it is WAY too hot to do anything.

Over the weekend I met a little girl at a party. She was 8, and the niece of a friend. We got to know each other in the way 8-year-olds customarily do: by making lists of our favourite and least favourite things in various categories.

Little girl: Who is your favourite boy singer?
Jocelyn: Oh, I don't know... maybe Elvis Costello.
Little girl: Mine is... I don't know if you've heard of him... Justin Timberlake?

I am now so old that children do not know how old I am. They just think I'm a grown-up. As far as that little girl knows, I could be 100. I could live in some other, grown-up world, without Justin Timberlake.