October 2006

My apartment had one in it, but evidently it was a leftover from an eviction. When I picked up the keys and went to look at it, I found that I needed to procure a large box to chill my leftovers. My plan was to move, go to Best Buy tomorrow, take out a line of credit, and get appliances - I have no washer and dryer, either, and being in a duplex it’s buy your own or head to the corner laundromat.

Today was moving day. We packed the uhaul, two friends and I, and it all fit with room to spare. We went to lunch at Whole Foods, being at a loss for which restaurant to hit, and decided the food bar was a good bet. Something for everyone. We were just sitting down at a table when someone walked up and hailed my roommate. Lo and behold, it was a friend/co-worker he hadn’t seen in years. She sat down with her box lunch and we chatted, and when I identified myself as moving and not looking forward to spending a thousand bucks on appliances. She said she was in Fresno to clean up the house there, she’d moved to another town to be closer to work and was trying to sell it, and there was a fridge in her garage that needed a gasket on the freezer door but was in otherwise good condition. It’s a freezer on the bottom model, energy efficient, with the moters and whatnot on the top instead of underneath.

We went to see it. It looked large. We made room in the truck — I’d asked a third person to come help us pack up everything, and she had a small pickup, and she was willing to drive back and forth to New Town and give Chris a lift home into the bargain, so we moved a couple of items into her truck and loaded up the fridge. The plan was to store it in the garage if it didn’t fit in the space in the apartment.

It fit. I have a free fridge. Just because we decided to go to Whole Foods for lunch and meet someone Roommate knew five years ago.

And, we returned the truck early, so I don’t have to fuss with it tomorrow either.

Serendipity!

If only serendipity would have had the power on in my apartment when I got there, I’d be there right now unpacking. But since I packed away my flashlight, and my candles, I’ll have to wait til morning to go back. So I’m at Friend’s house doing laundry and drinking a Heffeweizen, and blogging my very good fortune. Now I’ll only need to spend five hundred bucks on appliances, and possibly twenty bucks on a gasket.

ETA: I found a movie featuring Admiral Nechayev as a lawyer and Hilary Swank. How very odd. I wonder if I watch a movie about a sleepwaker killer, will I sleepwalk?

Evil Mad Scientist Laboratories - Building a Robotic Dalek Pumpkin

I managed to get through the first day on the job without incident, unless you count getting lost on the way there. Boss handed me 20 names and client numbers, so I am in the process of reviewing case files and reading the 6 inch thick procedure manual, reacquainting myself with the bureaucratic tree-killing paper load.

Now I’m in the bedroom at the friend’s house, with all my devices recharging, trying to remember my co-worker’s names. Nothing like a blur of people to confuse you. The clinic houses a number of teams and there’s a cube farm going on, but I have an office with a door and a ‘do not disturb’ sign. Therapists are lucky that way. That confidentiality thing requires an actual door.

Tomorrow will likely be a repeat of today, only with meetings. Boo yah.

In the process of packing up things to move AGAIN (I believe I’m in the 30+ mark for ‘moves within my lifetime’), I am confronted with STUFF. As in, haven’t unpacked this box in years, yet moved it each time with the nice little list taped to the top.

I opened a few boxes to find… proof that I have forgotten way more than I thought I did.

Letters from college roommates. Letters from relatives. Letters from people I barely remember, and some I will never forget.

Letters from my bestest friend ever from grammar school - I had lost track of her in high school (we went to different ones), then my mother ran into her mother at a store, gave her mother my college address to pass along, and we began a correspondence that ended abruptly when the cancer suddenly accelerated and took her down. She was barely 22. I was told about the funeral several days after it actually took place.

I repacked that box and put it in the stack. The shoes, on the other hand - the ten year old shoes that originally cost about ten bucks, with the shredded bows on the toes - those can go away. So can all the used file folders, the miles of paper with illegible notes I scribbled (must have made sense at the time, at least until after I studied for finals), the ancient brick cell phone, and once I figure out who recycles them, the metric ton of floppy disks is totally gone. I found a picture of me with such … ugly hair. Oh, the ‘what was I thinking’ moments multiply fast! I found a dress I wore twenty years ago. A pair of pants… where did I get them? Good grief. They’d fit a ten year old, maybe.

On the other side, I found lots of articles and photocopied bits I am totally going to read again. By the end of this, I’ll have a box of stuff to grab in those odd moments I totally need a distraction from the wild and crazy month I have ahead of me. When things get settled, I’ll be organized. I intend to develop a list of books to read and find a yoga class. Re-do my diet to exclude things that lately have not agreed with my digestion — surprising, how suddenly one day the stomach just wants to reject the thing it used to accept without complaint. And get myself in for a physical, because doggone it all, I want to shed about fifteen pounds and get something that works for the allergies.

Forget New Year’s resolutions. I seem to be making New Life resolutions. “It will all be different when…”

What are some of the most stressful things in life? Job changes, relationship changes, illness or death of family members, illness of self….

I am currently working with:

*new job stress
*moving lots of miles away stress
*sick family member stress
*head cold-PMS combined stress
*financial stress - good grief, I need a wardrobe! a washer-dryer! probably a new car! eek, my student loans are nearly due! I need to write a check for $1650 for rent/deposit! eek!
*relationship changes - everyone I know is here. I’m moving there.

I’m tired now just looking at that. And the long, long list of tasks I must accomplish in the next couple of days, such as “putting everything in boxes” and “reserving a uhaul.”

ETA: well, the truck is reserved, not everything is in boxes, but I have officially bought more clothes than I have ever bought in one go before. What can I say — every single store is having a huge sale! Bought a pair of shoes, got another for 88 cents. Bought half-off camisoles, half-off shirts, forty percent off slacks, and o-m-g a sweater that I had to have even though it wasn’t on sale. Never mind it’s still too warm to wear it yet.

Also, my feet are big, and most normal shoes don’t come in my size. I wasn’t the only one asking for ’surfboard-type huge’ at the counter, either. We who have huge feet ought to be covered under those statutes that supposedly protect minorities or something, cause it’s just not fair that we have to pay the ‘abnormal’ tax, i.e. go somewhere that charges three times the price for decent shoes, just because we’re not a size 7. Because I don’t think we’re abnormal! We’re a couple of generations out from foot-binding and bad one-size-fits-all-whether-it-does-or-not boots, our feet are allowed to meet their fullest potential, and the shoe industry needs to … er… get in step with the times.

Stopping ranting now, going back to boxing things.

Good news: I have an apartment.
Bad news: Can’t move in til a week from Saturday.
Good news: My friend is willing to let me stay with her.
Bad news: She won’t be home. She and her hubby are going to a con.

My life, for the next few weeks, will be strange. But at least it won’t involve pet rent.

I seem to recall your desire to write House fic, but feeling intimidated by the level of detail necessary in medical terminology.

Have no fear. The writers of House don’t care much about that, actually. Here we are: Television Without Pity » House » Lines In The Sand

There are a number of things wrong with this scenario. This is about Valley Fever, a fungal infection that you can get by inhaling dust kicked up in central regions of California, particularly desert or high desert areas.

Here’s the thing: it ain’t like this.

“He asks Ali if she was in an earthquake during her recent trip to Fresno. She says there was a small one, and House tells her that she’s not in love with him: she has a spore in her brain. Enh, same difference. A fungus called Coccidioides immitis lives in California soil, only to be released into the air by those frequent earthquakes and breathed in by anyone stupid enough to live in the evil dangerous hellpit that is California. It causes the milky tears he saw Ali crying as well as those aches and pains and cold-like symptoms both she and her dad were suffering from. It can also cause “loss of inhibition and judgment,” i.e. thinking House was a great romantic prospect.”

1. NO EARTHQUAKES IN FRESNO. The central valley ‘burg of Fresno lies nowhere close to a fault. The last earthquake I felt was over a decade ago; it sort of jiggled the apartment. The only reason I woke up at all was my bird shrieking — birds are very sensitive to earthquakes. Certainly there was no dust thrown up by it. Earthquakes happen somewhere else, like Coalinga.

There are, however, plenty of construction sites. And those are very good at stirring up dirt, as are dust storms. But we all know California is just shaking itself apart with the earthquakes, so no mundane little thing like a bulldozer will do.

2. The symptoms are half right - Valley Fever can have the cold/flu symptoms, and lots of others that appear some of the time, but not all of the time. “Milky tears” aren’t on the list, nor is loss of inhibition. Sputum, skin lesions, chest pain, headache, rales, meningitis, and other things you can find here can happen. Pretty much everyone who lives in the central valley is exposed; a fraction of those develop symptoms, and lots of us develop a mild case and/or immunity. My grandmother died of complications that came about because she had Valley Fever, not because of the fungus itself. I worked with an African American who missed lots of work because of problems with Valley Fever; he always sounded like he had pneumonia. Simply writing a scrip doesn’t always help. Of course, House might not have known that - but you’d think he would have done a little research and referred the patient to someone with expertise?

Anyone with a link to WebMD could do a better job than this. Also, California=Earthquakes R Us? not so much. Lazy, Lazy. Bottom line? House is ALREADY as poorly researched as most fanfic. We could certainly do better, even if our only resource were wikipedia.

While driving about searching for rentals in New!Town yesterday, I stopped at a light and waited the excessively long time you always wait when turning left from an expressway, and watched a guy in droopy jeans walking. He swung his arms like he might be trying out for a bit part in a play, maybe “man walking with Great Purpose and Vigor”, and if he’s lucky he might be chosen to paint the backdrop. I would have thought it an aberration but I looked the other way and saw a professionally dressed woman in the crosswalk doing the same walk — arms swinging, long strides, head up and back, march!

They were of two ethnicities, dressed to fit in two different demographics, and so I started to wonder — is this just the way people in this town walk? Was one of them making fun of the other? And why did the guy reverse course twice, walking along the same half a block?

I also wanted to know why the apartments I wanted to live in were all occupied, but that’s rather less a mystery — of course affordable AND nicely appointed will be occupied. Come Sunday I’ll likely be in my friend’s guest room.

Or at least until I start the job - and I have no new apartment secured, and not much of a clue of when I will.

I taught the parenting class last Saturday and sounded like a quacking duck — getting over the head cold from hell and all, and totally wanting to jump back in bed, I managed to hit the points on the lesson plan without much trouble. I was also as charismatic as a paper towel, but we can’t have everything.

Yesterday Roommate said, “let’s go to Yosemite!” and so we did. Fall colors v. nice. Of course, I left the camera at home. We ate in the lodge, and sat in the bar listening to other people cheer at football as we read the voting materials and moved on to books. And of course we walked around the valley looking at the trees and he took pictures of the most gorgeous maple you’ve ever seen, and nearly got hit by herds of bicycles.

Today? I need to turn in things to boss, and make a bunch of phone calls as a prelude to another rental search. Because I have to be at work Monday.

Surprisingly, I’m also still writing and doing some other stuff in between - something to keep me from obsessing over the specter of homelessness.

If you want to stay sane, don’t go to your local law enforcement site and don’t look at the maps of recent crimes. I did this for New Town, and immediately wanted to invest in something with big scary alarms and video cameras, for the car and for home.

And then I did the same for Current Town, and totally feel safe moving to New Town. And yet, somewhat panicked. Now I know that umpty-trillion people have been burgled, shot, raped, hit, and run into within five minutes of my current apartment. And, oh, there are like fifteen sexual predators a rock throw away.

And now my headache’s back. Will the creeping crud never creep away and die already?

I keep telling myself, self, I’m going to make this blog pithy and fun and popular, someday.

Well, how many years has it been? Four? Six? (the archives of the previous incarnations are not here, as I felt they represented the early, non-pithy, non-amusing phase quite well.)

Still here, still not popular, still not quite as amusing as one would hope. But then, I got over that and lapsed into the Blue Period — long moany posts and gripes about traffic and whatnot. Things you no doubt hear over the dinner table at night, if you have any other living bipedal units in your vicinity.

There are other things I said I’ld accomplish someday. A partial list:

Finish the afghan. (times four, at last count - I’m emptying closets and still finding yarn, and this after the Great Yarn Stash Reduction of 05)
Keep a journal. Which I’m doing, honest — I’m keeping it in its original pristine condition
Write a real, original novel I can send away for others to look at. I’ve written partial novels that I gave up on prior to their achieving a state at which I would feel comfortable sharing them with anyone with a brain.
Clean out my car. The thing looks like I haven’t cleaned it in years — but I have, just not recently.

There are other things I could list - if I could only remember them.

I spent the day in my car, except for an hour at my friend’s place and another hour filling out paperwork at the unnamed new workplace. I did have my picture taken, and I totally look like zombie!girl, thanks to the lovely red upper lip and the total helium-headedness of me on sudafed — but there was no other way to go through the day other than on sudafed, otherwise I would have been coughing and holding a bucket under my nose.

Apartments fall into three basic categories in new!town. 1. Overpriced, tiny, pet fees. 2. Overpriced, no pets. 3. Wrong side of town.

The best compromise so far? Paying way too much in deposits and average rent for a place that is a bit small but otherwise nice. At least I get deposits back.

I am sleeping in tomorrow. Then I am calling some property management places.

My sinuses have declared a war on breathing.

It’s cold.

My head sort of aches, like I had more than Benadryl last night.

Tomorrow, I have to get my picture taken.

I have the feeling all these things combined will result in my having an ID badge to match my driver’s license picture — red poofy eyes, red nose, vaguely zombie-like expression, and a half-smile that translates roughly into “I hate digital cameras and I woke up two hours ago, meh.”

In other news, spammers keep sending me poetry. All of it looks like this:

You’ve Seen Them On TV…
GAIN 3 INCHES in size
Ask your wife - SIZE DOES MATTER!
http://asagfuib.com/mxl/
suspects; he himself as Fred the effective
than dampen it. But almost have

Shades of e.e. cummings, with a touch of assumption — if I have a wife, I’ve certainly never seen her, and I’d want to, if only to ask why the #$!! she hasn’t done her share of the cleaning. And the last thing I need is an extra 3 inches anywhere. I can’t find decent shoes, my clothes barely fit any more, and good grief, look, I need a haircut again.

What?

Cue the muppet show announcer: Fiiiiiiiiiire iiiiiiiin Spaaaaaaace!

This episode is about exactly what you think it is.

I remember this episode. The dagget scuffles through miles of air ducts to do something, and things blow up, and things burn. People nearly die.

Whoa! WHOA! I don’t remember the Rejuvenation Center! Which is totally decorated in 70’s colors, and has an air hockey table. We’re treated to Boxey, Muffit and Athena doing Cutesy Dialogue with Boomer for all of a minute before we cut to launch-the-vipers stock footage. Cylons are approaching. A red alert tinges the whole interior of everything red, and more vipers launch. And more. You never knew there were this many. What’s Boomer still in the Rej Room for? Did his viper go without him? The doors shut tight and Athena as-you-know-bobs to let us know that ‘just in case the Galactica gets hit, they shut everyone in whatever room so they all die in flames.’ Well - she actually burbled something about saving oxygen and hull breaches and so forth. But we know the truth.

Vipers are firing and things are a’sploding, and Tigh says something’s wrong — too many fighters coming, and they’re not fighting back. Adama has them close the blast shields that shutter off the bridge. And then we see a fighter turning and approaching, and a centurion intones ‘aim for the bridge’ — BOOM. Fire. Sparks. Space Acting! People fling themselves on the deck plates. Apollo yells over the comm line, but Adama’s face down and out of service. So are about umpty million panels, windows, and other really breakable things.

Another cylon fighter hits a landing bay. The Galactica’s hit bad, and things are aflame, and there’s smoke everywhere. The Rejuvenation Center is surrounded by fire in the corridors. Adama, flat on his face under some rubble, murmurs some advice and goes under, and the doc arrives to tote him away to become an Object of Suspense(tm).

The vipers fly around keeping an eye on things, as the Galactica’s scanners are destroyed. The white male version of Dualla tells Tigh that Boomer, Athena and Boxey are among those in the Rejuvy Center, which has been cut off - how does he know who’s in there? The scanners are down. Is there a sign in sheet somewhere they pulled to check? Did they search the whole ship and guess? Is the Dualla substitute psychic? Sounds like time for a fanfix.

Boomer is taking apart a door. Those viper pilots are multi-talented all right. Smoke is pouring through a vent - won’t someone please save them? Oh my!

Aha! Wounded guy in sickbay says he saw Athena and Boxey go in there before the attack. All is explained. Lorne Greene acts like he’s nearly comatose, but talks like he’s just sleepy. Doc talks to Apollo about heart surgery and why PapaDama needs it, and why he’s not getting it — problems with the energy or something.

Folks in tinfoil suits shoot foam into the flames somewhere… looks like a great big basement full of pipes.

Apollo wants to know how long Athena and Co. realistically have to survive. Tigh, looking like he rolled around in the flour, says ‘not much.’ Well, it was vaguer than that.

Boomer shorts out the door mechanism and gets it open, as what looks like dry ice vapor comes under the other door. Everyone runs through, Boomer leaps dramatically after as the other door dramatically blows up — do they make doors out of explosives? how is that safe? Probably made by the same company that makes all those Hollywood cars you see blowing up in movies when someone shoots a bullet into them.

Apollo and Tigh point at a really lame little schematic of the Galactica, talk randomly about circles and squares they label ‘converter’ this and ‘generator’ that, and Apollo thinks the daggit could make it through the air vents. Then we’re off on another tangent where it’s decided to load up some vipers with bor-ton, so they can shoot it into the landing bay.

Whoa. The Dualla wannabe has some serious rug burns on his face that weren’t there last time I saw him. He announces the launch of the bor-ton flight.

I tell you, someone’s psychic. They’re sending the daggit into the vent with a note. What good will it do? Everyone knows they’re in there. What’s the daggit gonna do, come back with a very very very long hose?

Oh, now, that’s funny. The vipers shooting bor-o-ton are just about the best phallic symbols you can imagine. Guess what the stuff looks like?

The night the lights went out in sickbay…. Doc is listening to Adama’s heart when they do, and he sputters he has to operate now, or he’ll die. Meanwhile, people in foil suits with a coat of cellophane for good measure are spraying bor-o-ton on a door marked “energizer #2″ — yes, save the bunny!

Tigh comes to listen to Adama croak a solution to the fire - smother it with the vacuum of space. You know, it’s something — all these able bodied people wandering around pulling their hair out over a problem they can’t solve, and the near-comatose commander has all the answers. And when did Tigh change his uniform?

Apollo and Starbuck crawl out an airlock to set charges on the hull to bring in that vacuum of space to smother the fire. They’re floating around without tether lines — no magnetic boots either, and no rocket packs. Well, guess they’ll come out of that okay.

Tigh, at Apollo’s behest, puts a tray of mushies in front of the vent. The daggit, mechanical as it’s supposed to be, will sniff them out like Boxey taught it to do. Because robotic dogs can do that, you know, and they would. I’m still wondering about the odd bit of sympatico that led two separate groups to the same conclusion, that a daggit should be sent through the vents.

Adama’s being operated on — from the filmy covering over his head they’re also coloring his hair, or perhaps giving him a perm. The lights flicker ominously.

Down in the hazy room of despair, everyone’s coughing. Tigh ties (hee) a bag of oxygen masks to the daggit and sends him back. When the hull blows, little plastic masks that cover the nose and mouth with no source of oxygen attached to them will save the trapped people.

Predictably, Apollo saves Starbuck from drifting away into space. For want of a tether, the sex symbol was (almost) lost. I can’t really tell what they’re hanging onto out there, but the suits are long johns and the helmets can’t possibly be air tight.

Umpty million shots cut back and forth — it’s Apollo, crawling slowly across the hull — no, it’s a daggit crawling — Apollo — daggit — yay, everyone gets oxygen, and Muffy gets a pat on the head. And Apollo’s still crawling around on the hull. He sets the last charge, leaps through space, and it looks like he’s not going to make it. So Starbuck jumps after him. Well, that makes sense. The charges go off, the fire goes out, and Apollo and Starbuck are doing that thing Crichton and D’Argo did — drift through space, holding hands. Sheba finds them floating there and a shuttle goes out.

Cut to sickbay, where Adama’s recuperating while wrapped in bubble wrap. Well, maybe it’s just sparkly stuff, but it could be bubble wrap. Apollo’s not afraid to cry as he thanks Boomer for saving his family. Muffy is wheeled in on a gurney; he ran back to save a firefighter and got a bit charred. So all’s well that ends well.

Except, why would cylons go to such great lengths to cause all that and never take advantage of it? Makes no tactical sense, does it? Those crazy toasters!

I have a part of me that wants to drive around picking boxes out of the recycling dumpsters at Acre O’ Offices down the street — there are ALWAYS boxes just piled in them — and a bigger, lazier part of me just really doesn’t like that idea. Big n’ Lazy noticed a recent comment suggesting Costco boxes to be cheaper. BnL also likes the internet, so surfed off to the costco website.

They have moving kits that are roughly a third of the cost of the same thing you’d get at uhaul stores. (By the way? You don’t have to be a Costco member to shop at the website. You, too, can buy your moving supplies, pens, electronics or books, with a small markup over what a member would pay.) Yes, I could get those office storage boxes — but I’m thinking here of hauling hanging clothing for a couple hundred miles, plus loads of breakables and whatnot, and so a kit of wardrobe boxes plus a kit with various sizes and packing material and tape will do it — I don’t really need so many boxes, since so much of my stuff is still in boxes and the electronics will fit in their own boxes, which are currently jammed in nooks and crannies awaiting their call to duty. The kitchen is always the worst part of moving and I’ve got very little kitchen unpacked; Roommate’s stuff has been in use for the past couple of years.

I did a purge a while back, getting rid of roughly 200 pounds of dross (odd clothing, bits of office supplies/craft crap/cassettes I never listen to/shoes I don’t fit into any more) and also reorganizing things into more compact packaging. I have the feeling another purge is imminent, especially as I am in the throes of “OMG I will have money! Real money!” and the old work clothes are not looking so great. This urge is being pinned down and beaten soundly by the old Scottish auntie part of my brain that wants me to wash tinfoil for re-use and save empty butter tubs. I encourage the beating, as footing the rent myself, plus the utility and internet connection (I don’t call it a telephone line, I use my cell phone and let the answering machine talk to the telemarketing industry), plus the entirety of the food bill (Roommate let me mooch quite a lot because he has this habit of picking up more than he needs — it’s a single person’s lot to be consistently buying more of everything than we can possibly use before it grows its own civilization of bacteria), plus OMG I have no furniture! will add up to probably about the same amount of free cash I currently have, which is to say, six dollars and fifteen cents.

This is actually a true representation of my mental state. I am, in fact, thinking in run-on sentences. Also, I nearly forgot to show up for my Saturday gig, which involves me lecturing to a roomful of desparate parents who are totally angry with the family court system and bursting to prove it. I certainly won’t forget this week as I’m carrying the next session by myself, without the seasoned therapist who’s co-leading it. By then, I will have said farewell to the part time job(s) and begun to pack boxes with unessentials. God knows where I’ll store the boxes but I know better than to put off the packing til the truck shows up — oy, oy, oy. Most of it will be books. Some of it will be the contents of a chest of drawers I think I’ll ditch.

Add to that the sheer terror that I’ll pick an apartment next to the guy with the biggest stereo and the paranoid barking dog and nocturnal habits, who parties every day except Tuesday when he has his girlfriend over and they practically knock through the wall into my space, and we’re not looking at much of a joyride.

Woes!

I have visited a ton of websites now, from rentals to moving supplies, and am trying to work off the nonverbal state into which I have fallen. I am truly boggled by the array of moving supplies - how many boxes? what sizes? do I need tiger tacos? - and by the STUFF. Three closets, two cupboards, and a bunch of random boxes I never unpacked knowing full well it was pointless to attempt to put everything out on shelves…. Good grief. Maybe I should get a two bedroom apartment, shove everything in one bedroom boxed up and out of the way, and start over?

It turns out it’s not so expensive to get from here to there; uhaul will give me a truck for less than two hundred bucks, with many free miles.

Part of me is still going WTF? WTF? Someone wants to pay you lots of money! I mean, this is literally doubling my salary, this job. I’m having a hard time deciding that this is real.

And the rational bit is making lists, of people to call and addresses to change and policies and accounts to move, and things to throw away and other things to sell. Lately I’ve been losing things - erg, arg, grrr, and grrrrr - and moving is just the ticket. Nothing like being forced to look at every object you put in a box.

I have a job.

It starts in two weeks.

I am verklempt.

Hungry, no food in house.

Just drove another 200 mile round trip for a half hour interview, but this time, there was clickage. Part of being an intern therapist is getting a good supervisor - that takes luck and a lot of hunting. I feel quite good about this one, and when I left she was making a note to call my references.

I think I’ve done my time with County X Mental Health Dept. I have to call and let someone know I’m taking a pass - the third interview is for a department I don’t think I want to work in, and driving another 200 miles for an interview with them isn’t really worth it. If I don’t get the green with one of the two positions I’ve interviewed for, I’ll stick it out in the town I’m in.

In other news, I recieved my diploma today. It only took them five months. rolls eyes