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• 'mouse on Friday, 4 p.m.
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As she began her tome, she anxiously searched for a topic of import that would capture the readers’ attentions and simultaneously lend enough material on which to expound; she could address the circumstances of coming by her peculiar nickname, she could extol the virtues and challenges of her favorite hobby (of which she had been boring other members on the chat line vociferously), she could delight the group with tales of her career mishaps (the boss who, when he traveled, and found it irritating to read his emails on his Blackberry device [which he frequently called his Blueberry] would require that his emails be printed out and faxed to him each morning [Scott Adams of Dilbert found this all too amusing]), but it all felt a little bourgeois; she also contemplated writing a piece de resistance in stream of consciousness, sure that her slightly bizarre train of thought would amuse her and her compatriots, but that seemed a little quotidian, too overdone; so she gathered her thoughts and sat with her laptop (a warm, heavy weight in her lap not unlike the heavy weight upon her shoulders) and chewed her lip nervously, hoping that she could pass this five hundred word test while simultaneously revealing a bit of her creative spark, her sarcastic sense of humor and her desire to belong to a group so utterly dedicated to the preservation of the word and the non sequitur; already she was addicted to turning her daily realizations into witticisms for others to read and comment upon (at this point it should be noted that she seriously debated the use of a preposition to end that last phrase, but upon finding neither a suitable replacement or the inclination to rewrite her work thus far, so she heaved a great sigh and carried on) and to fill the archives that would later be consulted by novice Scriners facing this same challenge; she stopped briefly to consider her next thoughts carefully, absentmindedly picking up the sock she was knitting and completing a few brief rounds in soft orchid-hued wool, smiling to herself and feeling the tension slowly ease out of her muscles with every stitch she knit; her thoughts drifted to the major life changes she would face in the upcoming months: the potential move to a new city, the beginning of a cohabitation with her betrothed, the change in her work situation and whether or not relocation would come to pass and necessitate a new job; if money were no object she would open a yarn store, but there was her career to think of and she dared not tempt the fates by mixing work and pleasure for fear it would result in her having to find both a new hobby and a new field in which to work; these thoughts swam in her brain, echoed by the dull drone of the television, the occasional sounds of cars passing in the distance, the faint murmurs of the child in the apartment next door.