I'm feeling very literary today. Literary not in the sense that I'm at all well-read, but rather that I'm like a character in a novel. Yes, that is the kind of literary I mean. Where I am the creation of someone else, whose necessity for dramatic tension requires that they slog me through a series of events I'd rather not witness, but which could possibly make for an interesting story.

I am not certain who's writing today's story, but I am picking up clues as the day progresses. Whoever it is, my author clearly believes in the superiority of animals over humans, because the dogs I'm housesitting were completely out of control, with growling and jumping and everything. This leads me to believe that my author might be Stephen King, or possibly Dave Barry (as there were no serious injuries involved, and the events could possibly milked for humor), but I will wait to be certain.

I can't think of any way to petition my author, but I'm hoping that he or she will be merciful and lead me to a giant vat of unset rubies, or something, rather than dismemberment or coke addiction (that means you, Bret Easton Ellis--if you're my author!).

The likeliest author in the running seems to be Helen Fielding, actually, as I'm feeling rather disheveled and overweight, and I'm complaining a lot. Maybe Renee Zellweger will play me in a movie at some point.

I suppose it could be worse: Norman Mailer, or that guy who wrote "The Bridges of Madison County."

I guess I'll wait and see.

Star of the day. . .Margaret Atwood