My whole sense of time has been flipped around, and it's going to take some serious convincing to get me to buy into this whole Monday morning crap after the weekend I had. Details may someday find themselves posted, but for the time being I'll just go with the fact that, since Thursday:

• glasses of free wine consumed: somewhere in the neighbourhood of 15
• sold out writers fest shows I got into for free: 2
• parties in Shaughnessy mansions attended: 1
• times I saw Patrick Lane cry: 2
• approximate age of playwright from Toronoto who decided to strip on the terrace: 37
• charming renowned British novelists befriended: 1
• standing ovations given in the 17 years of writers fest history: 1
• of those, ones that were for Shane Koyczan: well, all
• number of poets kissed: lost count
• hours I made it home by Friday, Saturday and Sunday mornings: 3:30, 5:15, 4:30

I'm going to either go back to sleep or catch a bus to school now. Both seem equally probable.