when i got to work this morning i discovered a big brownish-yellow stain on the side of my blue corduroys. this stain, invisible in the yellow light of my apartment, is glaring and gross in the fluorescent light of the office. mmm, scary to think what i would find if i systematically wore my entire wardrobe to work. i just hope no one notices, because any attempt to explain it would land me in the slob's catch-22. either i know about the stain and a) don't care or b) none of my other pairs of pants is any cleaner OR i have revealed myself as someone who thinks i can get away with avoiding laundry even when i have spilled coffee all over myself.

nothing to be done but eat cookies for breakfast.

last night i went to a book party i was invited to through class. my prof edited this book, food for the soul: selections from the church of the apostles soup kitchen writers' workshop, which has an intro by ian frazier because he runs the workshop. a bunch of the writers read, but it was hard to understand them without a copy of the book because they either stood too close to the mic or too far away, had thick foreign accents, or were retarded. the stories were pretty much what you'd expect from a soup kitchen's writers' workshop, except for one woman with this beautiful voice. she was a tall, striking, mulatto ex–manic depressive alcoholic drug user who was sharp. perfect for an oprah segment only much deeper and more real. she sang her own song about hard times and grace and god in the soup kitchen and everyone cried.

mainly i went to the party to confirm that there was no point in going; otherwise i would've convinced myself that i had missed my chance to meet X harper's or new yorker editor, or at the very least, my mom's friend's writer son who told me about the prof whose class i'm taking now. being connected with him seemed to offer some promise last november when i called him for advice (he said he got my prof her job at the new yorker), and i've felt really stupid for never following up and sending him the piece i said i would. so i was looking forward to asking my prof about him and maybe finally meeting him. after spending most of the reception talking to other students of limited interest, i found my prof and asked her if he was here, and she was like, 'oh him? he's nutso! i love him to death, but last time i saw him, he showed up to a thing with his dog and was flipping out about how the world was going to end.' she then introduced me to a retard writer and moved on.

awesome.