Dear Diary,

Worked 90 hours last week. Managed to get a day off on Sunday. Sat at home and farted all day. Bad food around the campaign office. No food at home.

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A friend of mine in BC was at some Liberal press event and saw Alliance MP John Reynolds. He described him as "fat like fat Oprah". Funny how a fat conservative is obsessed with "trimming the fat" in Ottawa.

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I've been getting the worst sleep for the last two weeks. I close my eyes and start dreaming about the campaign. Sometimes they are rediculous dreams, where a fellow staffer is jumping out of a plane onto her downtown penthouse balcony. Problem is, she's scared of heights, and she can't afford a downtown penthouse. Not weird enough for you? She also had the ass of a lion. Sometimes the dreams are real-time reenactments of the drudgery of a campaign. You know, like when Tetris was really big, and we all used to fall asleep with visions of blocks fitting into other blocks. Except, in my case, instead of blocks fitting into place, it is a few hours of running around trying to get fifty different jobs completed.

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The Flames lost the Stanley Cup last night. Across Canada no one was campaigning. I wish the Flames would lose the Stanley Cup again tonight, and again tomorrow night.

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In general, the campaign is going well. We've got a tonne of volunteers, we're able to track thousands of peoples' vote intentions, we're able to pump out communications materials and design work for a bunch of different ridings, and the money is coming in hand over fist. The problem with that is that the money is being spent fist over hand. And also, the volunteers are all crazy. Not clinically crazy, just kinda smelly and boring. And crazy. clinically crazy.