Only four months till Leap Day. I’m all distracted, only catching the middles of sentences (either spoken or written [this one girl I knew, her conversation was littered with semi-colons and the odd em dash]). O, what will I do with this gift of time? I ask my reflection in the men’s room mirror. It suggests, with its evil neck-mole on the wrong side: “Maybe you should put all of your hopes and dreams and action and strength and confidence in this one day, thereby leaving you free to spend the next four years in your usual quagmire of torpor, ennui, and inertia.” And I’m all: “Look who got a thesaurus for her bat mitzvah.” And he’s like: “I’m just saying there’s nothing special about this gift of time of yours. You blow plenty of hours on a regular basis and I don’t see why Leap Day’ll be any different. Just more time to waste.” And I say: “I’d smash this mirror right here and now if my hands weren’t so delicate and precious.” And he says: “Let’s not fight.” But I can tell he’s being sort of sarcastic.