Today.

I took the dog for a walk when I got home from school, and I realize his plastic-blue-bone-shaped poop bag container didn't have any bags in it, so he shit in the street in a muted-brown pile of soft-edged oak leaves, and if you're planning on shuffling your new-school tennis shoes (on this fallish 54-degree day) in the street arm-pits of Central Avenue, you might want to think twice about that idea.

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I've lost either five pounds or four pounds or three pounds or two pounds or one pound or zero pounds. My scale can't decide. For the last week, though, I've had some good runs alongside Lake Street, and the Halloween crafts are in the window, and the coffee-shop windows are foggy, and I get all sweaty and wet inside of my sweatshirt.

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I made vegetarian chili, and I've never farted so much in my life. It was delicious. On Tuesday, I spent two hours at the grocery store, trying to find items on my list. I walked around in gray, 3-inch mary jane heels and a dress and thick black tights, and there was squash on display.