I took Cricket for a walk yesterday morning. She loves walks. If I ever need to describe exuberance, I will hold up her leash in front of her and pay attention to what happens next. I was somewhat less exuberant, but then, I’m not a dog, either.

We walked to 7-Eleven because the relapse is now official. I am running, once again, on caffeine. It means fewer headaches and possibly a slightly more functional self.

The man behind the counter at my preferred 7-Eleven is Nepali. He has a brilliant smile and a very cool hologram necklace. It turns out that he is also a writer, having published both a novel and a book of poems. Unfortunately, they are written in Nepali. He wants to get them translated.

The conversation made me nervous. (Most conversations make me nervous, but this was a different kind of nervous.) Is he a writer if no one he meets in his daily life can understand his work? Am I a novelist if I never manage to publish the book?

They really do have everything you need at 7-Eleven, even existential angst, which is probably about as healthy as the Ding-Dongs and the cigarettes and the Big Gulps. Cricket frolicked all the way home.

Gratuitous dog pictures of Cricket with her favorite toy, Victim.