"I win."

My mom says it can't be good for me to drink so much chai tea. I have a few cups a day. It has no calories and I can pronounce all of the ingredients, so I don't believe her. I wait until she goes to work to put the kettle on the stove. The kettle screams at me when it's hot. This keeps me from burning the stove top. Again. I heat the milk in the microwave for 30 seconds and add it to my tea. I never get it hot enough, so the tea is nearly lukewarm after I stir in the milk. Then I drink it way too fast and want some more.

I copyedited all day. My mom comes home and I ask her if she knows the difference between who and whom. I looked it up, so I explain it to her. "Are you sure this is what you want to do for the rest of your life?" she asks. "I like it," I say.

If I had batteries to put in my camera, I'd have taken a picture of my set-up on the kitchen counter: laptop, mail, reading glasses, red pencil, mug of chai tea, and more than 120 pieces of paper stacked into three piles on top of a large mailing envelope. Inky (my cat) is asleep on the stack of edited papers, so I have to make a new stack for the ones I finish going over.

My browser has six tabs up: Gmail, AP style guide, proofreader's marks (so my editor doesn't think I'm unprofessional), online dictionary, Chicago style manual, and Google. AP style is usually for journalism, but if I can't find something from the Chicago manual, I settle with AP. I flip between the dictionary and Google, checking spelling and hyphenations, and using Google to find out if Applejacks should be Apple Jacks or if "New York City's Opera" should be the "New York City Opera."

I don't mind what I do. I like it. It feels kind of sick to be joyful over another writer's grammar mistakes, but there's no denying these bursts of endorphins. :-) It's almost like a game. My eyes scan over every character, trying to pick out errors. When I find one, I win.