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melted out of hand
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Loves, I feel more than a bit queasy bringing this up, but it also feels wrong not to mention it: I happen to live in a zone where chocolate tends to arrive on my doorstep unappetizingly melted. Much as I adore being thought of, and cherish being associated with chocolate, may I beg you to think of mustards or shares of sheep the next time you think me worthy of material tribute?


It was 105 F degrees here at 5 p.m. today. I have a carton of General Tso's chicken, a Coke, a pound of m&m's (which I didn't dare leave in the car as I ran errands), and 117 slides to annotate. (And ironing, too, but I'll likely punt that to morning.)

Some intriguing poems in the first issue of Jumps. Lily Hoang's "Great Exceeding" pushed some personal buttons, and the last stanza of Andrew Epstein's "Recognition at Spanish Moss Farm" -- ooh, yeah.

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