My Edward is in Dallas as I write. He’s at orientation for school, registering and being advised and such. It’s such a grand thought—we’re both going to be in the Dallas area for school in August, him in Richardson and me in Irving. Not so close but closer than before. Although I don’t understand why he has to go up there physically to pick classes and times and register now. I had it all set up over the internet and registered the day before class started. But I guess that’s just the way his school does things. It’s bigger than mine, so maybe it has to do things like this. Claudette is wreaking havoc at the hotel. Some of the offshore rigs are evacuating because of the storm and they seem to like staying at the nice hotels. I got to work at 7 this morning, and the first load of guys arrived at the sweet time of 7:15 am. And they nearly didn’t stop coming. Not only did we have the offshore guys coming in, we had a bowling tournament and a junior golf tournament to house, two weddings happening, and regular guests to accommodate. It was craziness, moreso than last weekend with the Chinese church group. And I know I did some things wrong. I’m positive of it. Only when I got home did I remember things I should’ve done. But even if I would’ve remembered to do the things, when would I have had the time? I barely had five minutes to check my bucket of registration cards and swallow a gulp of water. I couldn’t even call Aaron to see how his trip to Dallas was going. But I’m glad that two people came in on the shift after us who’d been there a long time and knew what was happening. We left them with about sixty-five to arrive, so they’re having plenty of time to fix any of our mistakes they find. Actually, Monica already called me to ask about something that happened. I wasn’t any help because I had nothing to do with what she was asking about nor did I know what she was talking about, but at least I know that they’ll fix things. I just hope they aren’t that mad about it. I know I did the best I possibly could for working there the amount of time I have, but I still feel badly about making those mistakes and not remembering about them. I guess it’s the little perfectionist or overachiever in me, always trying to be perfect and right. I was driving home from work yesterday evening and there was a massive lightening strike about fifteen miles away from me. I was a little frightened because it seemed to have struck close to my home, from what I reckoned. But it was brilliant. Crystal clear it was, and I could see it perfectly with all the veins. It was beautiful iron against the violent violet sky. ‘Violent violet.’ Now I’m writing like Derek Walcott. I need some sleep STAT.