I am quite certain my flat mate will have the FBI knocking at the door within the year. Oh you think I am joking? Go read Bittershack of Resentment mmmmhmmm (okay, so everything she writes is true, and it is unquestionably an excellent form of therapy.) yeah I can see it now, let's see, neither of us wake up before 10am, so they are sure to knock; knock? Do they do that? around 6:30. My dog will be the first to hear, prompting the men with pepper spray to encourage the rookies to the front of the door. Bleary eyed and in my green silk dragon robe, the one that makes me feel really fancy, the one that made me giggle this morning for I felt rather bourgeois yet desirably tacky opening the door for the UPS dude to receive that shinny new microwave. "Sign here", he said. Sign It!! If I let go of this thing it's slippin' open! But maybe tomorrow there will be four guys showing up, all dressed like Joe Friday, and I'll keep the dog at bay with one foot while planning escape with the other, and they'll know my name too, because this is just where this creepy nightmare is going, and I figure, the more I divulge now the less I have on my consciousness when I fall asleep tonight. Maybe it won't happen tomorrow, that's just what those FBI guys would do is keep me in suspense. So how would you tell your flat mate to be a good girl and write about puppies?