For whoever keeps track of these things:

Demonstrating magnanimous vocabularic dominance over my helpless, awestruck partner, I earned 35 points in a single hotly contested round of Boggle last night. I read the winners slowly: lost, glut, sole, gelt, dolt. I felt taller with every word. Sullen, stollen, closet, lutes, glues. I was like the guy in Chariots of Fire, approaching victory in slow motion, an embattled soldier with that annoying song in the background. Dear reader, even if you've never played the game, know this: a round of such consummate beauty is a rare thing indeed.

Unfortunately, it was only the second of seven rounds that evening. Over the course of the next hour, I was beseiged by my opponent, his intellect betrayed by a run of five-, six- and seven-letter words: trifled (ouch!), rattled, rifle, gears, trust, cotter, wroth. He was a vision in plaid, chipping away at my precious 35-pointer, leaving it to die a slow death at my feet.

After six vigorous rounds, he was a half point behind me. I suggested we go to bed. Perhaps the thought of me in my skivvies would be enough for him to leave this game well enough alone. I should have known better. We played one more round: romp, creme, crepe, hero, gape. Looking at his list, I knew who had won before he even read his words. But for the sake of someone's pride, I cannot tell you anything about it. I'm still recovering.