3:06 a.m. Yeah, yeah. It's late. I can't say I'm up way past my bedtime because I just realized: I don't have a bedtime. Haven't had one in I don't know how long. Welcome to the wonderful world of adulthood. Would that be a perk?

Depends.

Hurry up and wait. Sit around and wait. There's an art to doing nothing.

But there's no art to writing about nothing, in spite of what you might think you've learned from the old Seinfield show on TV. My day was spent, and so was yours. We spend, spend, spend like there's no tomorrow.

Ok, the truth is I'm tired, frustrated, and I still have more to print out before I can give up on this particular day and go to bed. My printer does not allow me to do anything else on the computer while I'm printing, and the printing takes four passes before it's done.

Four long passes. Cyan, Magenta, Yellow, and Black. $6.36 per color. I can't start the print job and go to bed because I have to stand behind the printer and make sure the paper feeds in properly or the whole thing will be for naught.

And I missed the Leonids. And I've been yawning so much in the last hour that tears are rolling down my cheeks. And I couldn't find the newspaper this morning because it's either lost somewhere in the fast-growing bamboo or it wasn't flung far enough into our yard in the dead of night.

So, I'm in the dark here.

I've missed all the news on TV, of course, because I've been really really busy trying to get the very comps done that are lining up in the print queue as I type. I can't turn the radio on because I lose my train of thought if someone is talking to me.

And if they're singing to me, I'm lost entirely.

I do have a police scanner, and I could turn it on. Maybe I will. Nah. It's not that kind of night. It's a quiet night. It's the kind of night you should be glad you've just slept through.

Unless you live in Hammerfest, right?

Hey, I like a short entry some times, don't you? Good.

Ok, I'm back. I fed the paper into the printer, babysat it until it looked like it was going to hold tight onto the rollers and not spit up, and then I went and had a nice hot bubble bath.

A bathtub is the single most important writing implement I own. I always find my perspective in the tub, no matter how buried it was before the water started to pound against the porcelain.

While I was upstairs I realized I had another couple of really interesting things to say here, so I grabbed a towel and raced back down to the computer. But unfortunately for me tonight, my ideas are disappearing faster than the suds on my forearms as I type. Inspiration and foam wait for no woman.

So. There you are. I like to air-dry.