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Sunday September 9 2001 - 5:43 p.m. I'm tired. I was going to write an entry, but I'm tired. Like, the kind of tired where your eyes feel all long. Am I the only one that gets that kind of tired? Stop looking at me like that. My book arrived back from the editor yesterday, but it was too large for my mailbox, they took it to the office, and the office was closed by the time I collected my mail. Bah. So tomorrow's the big day. I'm a little apprehensive, truth be told. And truth, babies, should always be told. I swear, I much more charming than this. Please, if this is your first-through-third time at my diary, give me another chance. Don't give up on me, folks. I'm tired. Zzzz. I'm going to go stretch out. My stomach is full of lemon chess pie. It's time to disengage the brain. One last note: there are two little girls in the exercise room (which is right by the pool, which I can see from my computer room window, in case you haven't read my older entries) that are madly, crazy-exercising. Like the wind. It reminds me of the exercising scene in Sixteen Candles. If you don't know what scene I'm talking about, don't worry about it. The overwhelming theme of this entry: It's not that important. And so I say Good night.
-Mlle R
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