I swear, I’m like a boy-crazy 13-year-old girl. It’s a wonder I ever get any work done at all, ever. But look at him out there, all painting and nice arms and paint flecks in his hair. He’s doing this to me on purpose.

I sleepwalked the other night, for the first time in ages. I have pretty much the grand slam of annoying sleep habits (snoring, talking, walking), but none of them consistently, thank goodness.

When I told Shawn that I climbed out of bed and just strolled my way right into the living room (I woke up on the couch), she was like, “Oh, great. We should make a point to lock the door ever night, then.”

But I’m not that worried about it - I never wake up curled on the kitchen counter or in the trunk of my car or anything. I always end up somewhere comfortable, like sprawled on the futon or curled up on a rug. Sometimes, I walk around and end up right back in my own bed. The only reason I know I walked at all is… well, it’s because I’ll find articles of my clothing I was wearing to bed strewn around my house. Usually, I just find, say, my jammy pants in the kitchen, and undies in the hallway. But sometimes I’ll end up the full monty, with my shirt carefully placed on a lamp or something.

Hey there, cute painter boy. That’s right, roll that paint up the stairwell, baby.

Oops. Sorry.

So, no Donnie Darko stuff, yet. However, I stayed home sick yesterday and napped all morning, with my only task being to drop off some radio equipment at the station around noon. I woke up and went in… and the station had flooded.

Make that, at least I don’t think there’s been any Donnie Darko stuff.

That’s right, Painterboy. Beeeend over and get those bottom bits.

Oh, I give up. I’m just going to stare and drool. Go read something else.