momentary reversal. please ignore.

Ignore what she said. She loves the ladder. Loves being ranked and filed with Dewey Decimal precision, measured and ordered (category: unremarkable chicken), if for no other reason than in a pinch, it'll give her something to rail against. The injustice of it. The mistake of it. The joke of it.

Hardee.

Har.

Har.

Har.

"I said," she said, "NO cheese and NO sauce pizzas for EVERYONE!"

She would make a strict, but benevolent god.

As it is she doesn't even warrant a title. Not even a little one. Not that she wants one. But if everyone else is wearing one this season. . . . Titles, the new black.

It's all nonsense, really. Laughable. And she's just not original enough to appreciate it fully.

Her Buddhist friends are all about detachment. But they rank swank or jibber jobless. So there.

Did I tell you she met Bono?

Shouldn't that mean something?

Time!

29 hours. 47 minutes. 11 seconds.

Two cha-chas forward. One cha back. Two cha-chas forward. One cha back. Toes taped and shoes filled with blood, "Dancing is fun," she tells herself, gritting teeth, breathless. "Dancing is fun. Dancing is fun. Dancing is fun. Dancing is fun. Dancing is fun. . . . "