I am terrified of buying stamps. Not at the Post Office, of course, because there I have the convenience and privacy of a machine.

Anywhere else though... and I start freaking out. Mainly this is because I have no idea where to buy stamps, and I hate asking. There are really only ever two answers to the question: "yes" or complete bafflement.

They should really sell stamps in bar bathrooms, alongside the condoms — I picture an outpouring of letters, a drunken literary renaissance in the spirit of Viennese coffeehouse literature.

But who sends letters anyways? I only need stamps, one stamp actually, because my bank lets me mail deposits in and I can never get there during office hours. I'm told that you can make a deposit at an ATM, but this is another one of those useful things I never learned how to do. C.f. "refill engine coolant" and "sew on a knee patch."

I didn't make it to the bank today, as usual; my patented Instantaneous Transport System failed to function and the day was thrown off by a crucial ten minutes. Clearly, I can't be trusted. Hence: stamps.

I did, however, finally make it to the Minneapolis Institute of Arts, but I wasn't feeling it. There was some good stuff, but my camera batteries were mysteriously dead and I spent most of my time looking at Chinese sculptures, wondering if I could make them out of scupley. A potential summer hobby.

I was far more excited about finally getting to hear all of Modest Mouse's "Dashboard," which started playing right as I was leaving the parking lot at work, a moment of golden sunshineness. Today wasn't bad, but it was a bit sour; I feel like that CD could fix the next one of these... so huzzah for that.