Good Morning Hank, it's Tuesday. I did it! I have signed my name 250,000 times, in fact, on the 250,000th time I wrote a review of signing your name 250,000 times.

And now I have packed up 78 boxes of signed sheets that will be bound into copies of the Anthropocene Reviewed book when they go to the printer in Virginia, and it is over.

By the way those 250,000 sheets in total weigh over 2,200 pounds, so it's actually not an exaggeration for me to say that I've signed a tonne of sheets over the last few months.

So as I've signed every night for the last, I don't know, like 40 or 50 nights, Sarah repeatedly said,"This is the last time, right?" And every time I've been like, "Yes, definitely. I mean my hand is not as young as it used to be", and also signing 250,000 times has brought into sharp focus the fact that there is a limit to how many times you can sign your name while also being like a parent, and having a job, and so on.

I mean at times the hours of signing have passed in a kind of mesmerized flow state contentness, which I have really needed of late, but at other times, with my hand cramping and especially with deadlines looming, I've been frustrated and overwhelmed.

Now, to be clear, I am certainly lucky to be in a position to sign my name 250,000 times but still, it was a little stressful, and what I did to distract myself, especially over the last ten days or so, was daydream about where each book might end up.

Like maybe one will go to Ocala, Florida, where I saw Halley's Comet with my dad in 1986.  Maybe a couple will go to my old high school campus. Maybe there will even be one in Alliance, Nebraska, home of Carhenge, an exact replica of Stonehenge built out of junked cars.  

I write about all these things in the book, by the way, but of course, most of them will go to places I've never seen and will never see, and there's something so lovely to me about that, a book going on adventures its author can't imagine, and that's been so nice to think about.

Anyway, as I was packing up the boxes yesterday, Sarah again said, "This is the last time, right?" and I was like, ehh, you know, I mean, it's definitely the last time I attempt a six-figure number of signatures.  

I can't quite close the door, Hank, even now, I find myself waffling, not least because if I never sign in bulk again, I may never have occasion to use my beloved LectroJog again.  

I mean, I don't want to overstate it, but the LectroJog really is the greatest piece of machinery ever created in all of human history.  I mean, just look at this beauty do its jogging. The LectroJog is here to remind us that it is possible for perfection to emerge from disorder.

You know, come to think of it, Hank, I kind of wish I fit into the LectroJog, like I could really stand to be LectroJogged right now.

Anyway, I don't think I'll ever sign my name 250,000 times again, but I do want to get some work for the LectroJog, so hopefully The Anthropocene Reviewed will not be my last book.

Hank, as you know, but some people watching this may not, I have had a very rough period as I worked on finishing this book, even by the standards of this long 14-month year.

Most of this has been because of things that are more important than books: health of family, trying to manage my brain disorder, and so on, but a little bit of it has been the book.  Today is the last day I can make even the smallest changes to it, and that's always a strange feeling for me.  

Starting tomorrow, it isn't really my book anymore. It's in the hands of the people in Virginia who will print the books and then on May 18th, it will belong, as it should, to its readers. I can't bear to reread my stuff after it comes out, so I know that today, I am reading it for the last time.  

Now, the book is finished and has been for some time.  At this point, it's just me futzing over commas and rearranging sentences I've rearranged 50 times over the last three years.

But there's such pleasure in that for me, in making and remaking the million little choices that together form a book, and now it's about to be sealed and to become whatever it's going to be for however long it's going to be. And I am about to take a three day nap, or at least a one day nap.  

I had to put on my vision board, "don't sign name" just to—as a helpful reminder.  Hank, I'll see you on Friday.