I am having such a hard time remembering that it's Sunday.  I know there've been two shows so far and I know, in theory, that I have to be back at the theatre at 1 and that a cast party and a barn dance will follow thereafter, but it's all a little hard to grasp.  Evidently travelling on weekdays disorients me rather thoroughly: Earlier I caught myself referring to my time in Cambridge as "this weekend."
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In one of the Red Sox games this past week, a ball hit past the Green Monster was ruled a double by the umpires.  Trot Nixon, presently on the disabled list, came out of the clubhouse -- where he'd apparently seen a replay -- and started slagging the umpires, who ejected him.  I didn't know you could eject someone who isn't even available to play in the game!
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There was a sign near some construction on Mount Auburn Street that asked drivers to Squeeze Right.  Which is an adorable little instruction, but seems a mite inexact...
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"...there is nothing more difficult...than expressing in writing what one does not feel -- I mean expressing it with conviction.  It is not a question of using the right words: one does not arrange them the right way.  Or rather one does arrange them, and that is sufficiently damning..."
     - Mme. de Merteuil, in Les Liaisons Dangereuses
     - (i take this as a defense of the utter artlessness of the one love letter i've actually delivered)

Music: "I guess I've all but said it now -- // so much for hopin' you'd go first. // Don't leave me hangin' out here on a line, // baby, it's your turn: // Say you couldn't sleep last night, // swore that you could feel me breathe..."