And what was my Sunday made of? The paper, the Witchblade marathon and filing. Damn, do I know how to party.

I tend to hang on to things. Sometimes it's the result of annoying paranoia -- just when, for example, is it safe to shred my bank statements? Can I get rid of the ones from 1997? But sometimes it's kind of fun. I keep unearthing things that remind me of stuff I'd completely forgotten about. For example: When I was in college, I worked on a wannabe-cool alternative newspaper called Ditto. There was much that was wrong with Ditto -- lord, don't get me started -- but a few things that were very, very right. For example, it's where I started really hanging out with Jane, who, among other things, was our mystical horoscope scribe, Madame Eccentrica. She made up the signs, made up the 'scopes, and generally had a good time with it. Evidently she'd written one for me, which is as follows:

Madame Eccentrica's Daily Dollop 'o Wisdom:

Squid (feline fanciers, deplorers of jingoistic nationalism, easy targets for malicious humor): Tuxedoed birds come to you in a dream and beg you to take on the persona of an enigmatic oracle for the betterment of bettors everywhere. When you stare at the ceiling, you think of Belgium and Austria. Feta figures prominently.

I'm sure it was all very pointed and relevant -- hell, I printed it out in 16-point type -- but I have absolutely no recollection of what any of it is referring to. Hmmmm.