Dear September and October, where, oh where did you go? I’m afraid if I go to bed tonight I will wake up tomorrow to August again. Dear self, aren’t you ashamed of yourself for getting light-headed and sick to your stomach every time you thought about getting a flu shot now? You couldn’t even feel the stick! Dear Maryrose Wood, your Incorrigible Children of Ashton Place books are genius. I adore them. Dear gargantuan pile of books on my nightstand, please don’t topple over in the middle of the night and paralyze me from the neck down. That would be inconvenient. Dear self (again), how did you manage to infect your computer with not one, not two, but ONE HUNDRED AND EIGHTY-FIVE viruses?! No wonder it was running a little slow….