Jake has been motivating me to write more. I usually receive encouragement now and again and I appreciate it immensely. Jake, however, is able and willing to show up at my house and shout "Write, dammit!" directly in my face.

Amidst a monsoon inauguration of furiously-flung gouts of rain and dirt, I drove to the Ye Olde College Goodes Store. Clutching my composition notebooks, pens, and memo pads, I cast furtive glances at the items of the people ahead of me in line. Mostly plastic baskets of inexpensive alcohol and frozen foods in single portions. I was pleased at our silent solidarity, although I was opting for a different sort of loneliness.

Thus armed, I returned to my home. I put new batteries into my voice recorder. I seldom use it but between scribbling notes, my frenetic fiddling with the radio, and the occasional text-message, I have become an uncertain driver with which to share the road. The voice recorder should help.

I must rest now. My nephews both have temperatures of 100 degrees Fahrenheit. My temperature is about 97.1 which is a little low but I always figured I was cooler than most people.

Ow. I just felt as if a million hands raised up at once, and then slapped me. Odd.

Our dog, El Guapo (aka The Noobers, aka Noobington L. Dog) had a temperature of 100 degrees. I'm not sure what his temperature is normally so instead of medicine I gave him a piece of ham.

Speaking of discomfort, am I some lucky guy that gets to feel pain in his dreams? I didn't think it worked that way. In the past week I've had three distinctly painful dreams. It has been the case before that I've fallen asleep on my arm and dreamt about a hurt arm, but this is nothing like that.

Ants biting legs dream=stabbing needles of pain in my legs that vanish when I awake. Dream of getting stabbed=massive internal pain until I wake up writhing. Then, nothing.

Also a dream of Steve Buscemi shooting me with tranquilizers on a beach and watching me lie helpless on my back as the tide came in to slowly drown me. Which was uncomfortable, but mostly because I really like Steve Buscemi.

That might have been a sympathy dream because I've been teaching Ender to float on his back in the pool and he can do it most of the time, but man, he frikkin hates it.

I'll have to watch out for him. If I suddenly turn up dead and the autopsy reveals that I "suffocated on a rattle" you'll know.

You'll know.