Well, holy damn. I am still in damn Baltimore. We are officially Pre-Famous! There are a lot of perks that seem to go along with Pre-Fame. Men on the street hoot and compliment our bottoms, and the person making our coffee drink asks if we want whipped cream. Can you imagine? I put the “Privacy Please” sign on like a pasha.

Despite all these positive developments, I’ve developed a rash. I hope this is not related to fame, as it is rather uncomfortable. Some have posited that I am allergic to Baltimore itself. Or maybe I am allergic to crab. There seems to be ground-up crab in every dish in every restaurant. The other night we ate at the restaurant in the hotel, and the menu contained descriptions like “entwined with pasta” and “atop a puddle of…” and “carefully spiced.” I can’t stop thinking things like “beleagured by a balsamic reduction” or “hampered by roasted asparagus.” When I get a funny in my head, I will be thinking of it for days. Help me.

We took breaks from our scrivening to glance at a sporting event taking place in the television. I am not sure who won, but there was a charming advertising interlude featuring monkeys. If I worked at a company staffed entirely by actual apes, I would never, ever leave.