Every Sunday this month, everything at the Goodwill thrift store is 50 percent off. I wait about fifteen minutes for a dressing room. Before I get in, the clerk clears everything out. Everything, that is, except for a single boot. That boot is in the corner, soaking in a puddle of urine. I notice it a few minutes into trying on clothes, and come out of the dressing room horrified. A woman with a baby stroller tries to push in after me.

“I’d wait for the next one,” I say. “There’s pee in the corner.”

She considers this, peeks in, waits until she thinks I’m far enough away to have forgotten about her, then enters anyway. With her baby. I approach the sales clerk.

“Someone peed in the dressing room,” I say. “You should call someone to come and clean it up.”

“Huh,” he says. “Yeah.”

Then he goes back to hanging clothes.

I go home and shower twice.

My computer done broke. Broke as in, “I sure hope you backed up your hard drive. Your computer’s done broke.” I hadn’t. I hadn’t even though I’m working on a book. For the record, not backing up when you’re working on a book is the stupidest kind of not-backing-up you can do. Fortunately, Lane Becker–who is wise beyond all measure–figured out how to get the information from my hard drive before I had to give the laptop back to Apple. Therefore, my lovelies, please back up, as you may not have a Lane Becker in your life.

I went to the candy store, because Lane is a man who deserves some chocolate. The woman behind me in line was excited because it’s Friday. Tonight is the night when her husband brings home a bottle of champagne, she brings home a box of chocolate, and they spend some time on the porch.

Friends, may your Friday be so sweet, and your computer perpetually hummming.

When my niece and nephew come for a visit, I’m surprised by their utter lack of concern about dirt and germs. Trevor likes to pick things up out of the gutter and roll them around in his hands. Then he rubs his face. Emma touches absolutely everything. She runs her hands along anything at hand level. At the beach, I looked over to find her digging her fingertips into the top of the driftwood fence as she ran along next to it. I was alarmed.

“Yikes! Em, you’re going to get slivers!”

She glanced over at me and shrugged. “I like the way it sharpens my nails,” she said, holding out her hands for me to see.

I shuddered, and kept my mouth shut. Fearlessness is fleeting.

From the back of the bus comes a belch that sends out sound waves you can feel against your skin. The volume and intensity of this belch are unrivaled. Everyone turns, ears ringing, to find the culprit slouched in his seat. He has pulled up the neck of his T-shirt to cover his mouth. “EX-cuuse me. EX-CU-se me,” he shouts. His tone is defiant, threatening. He belches again. This second belch reaches multiple climaxes. The other passengers recoil, and the belch stretches down the center aisle. It is deafening; it strains credulity. “EX-cuuse me. EX-CU-se me,” he shouts. “EXCUSE me, ladies and gentlemen!” The irritated man in front of him responds.

“You better say excuse me. You almost ripped my ear off, dog.”

“That’s why I’m covering my mouth with my shirt, man. Chill out, man.”

“You the one makin’ all the noise. Disgusting.”

“I covered my mouth. It’s all good.”

“No, it ain’t.”

“It’s all good. We’re 93 million miles from the sun.”

… (The man in front of him stiffens.)

Anyway, I’m gettin’ off right here. It’s all good anyway. I’m getting the hell away from you. Everything is war, and war is everywhere.

I sit down on the bus next to a guy my age. He smiles winningly; I pull out my magazine. “What are you reading?” he asks. I show him the cover. “Oh. GQ?” “No,” I reply, “Esquire.” I go back to reading. “… Isn’t that a men’s magazine?” he asks. “Mmmhmm,” I say, and continue reading. “Yeah,” he says, “I sometimes pick up copies of Cosmo.”