The day started out with so much promise: I awoke before my alarm, my legs weren’t on fire, and Ed brought me a bagel. Big plans were afoot for the day, so I hopped out of bed to shower and start the first item on my to-do list: dollar store henna. The beginning of the experiment was kind of scary, as the prepared henna was a brilliant shade of green (a green I would naturally gravitate to if it had been on an inappropriately cut shirt or a pot of sparkly eyeshadow, but was wholly unprepared to slather on my head) and smelled .. strange. Henna doesn’t smell that great to begin with (although I kind of like it), and this smelled like flowers planted in soy sauce – still, I had roots to cover so I slopped on the goo and fashioned a turban out of Saran Wrap to await my fate.

Things started to go wrong the instant I sat at my computer. The night before I swept everything off my desk in a dramatic gesture to make room for my recently repaired iMac, then started the restore process from an external drive. I went to bed before the restore had finished, so I assumed it would be done when I sat down .. and technically, it was. Unfortunately, I had restored from the wrong drive, so none of my content was back. Okay, no biggie – I could start the restore from the correct drive while I tackled the next several chores on my list. It was then I discovered that the Apple store had given me a hard drive with Snow Leopard on it instead of Lion, so I had to upgrade before my backups could be read – another couple of hours. Upgraded to Lion, restored my files – more waiting. Finally, I had everything where I wanted it so I could stop messing with files and user accounts and look into the next problem: my wireless mouse wasn’t working. After a lot of swearing and troubleshooting, I narrowed the problem down to the machine itself – yay! I can’t see any devices or machines with Bluetooth, even though it was working fine before I took my computer in to the Genius Bar. More troubleshooting, an attempt to update the firmware, an upgrade to Mountain Lion, far too long spent wading through Apple support forums, and nothing: my Bluetooth is dead.

It was right around this time that I also discovered my brand new 1TB hard drive somehow had a mere 490GB free. Digging through the machine I found that almost 250GB were taken up as “other”, and that there were some locked directories on a machine I’m the only user on. Okay, time to unlock those – can’t; no permission to. I’m the sole administrator, but who cares about logic – I’ll just .. do nothing, because there’s suddenly a master password on the machine that I don’t know. I never SET a master password on the machine, but there’s one there now. Hooray! What a great day this is turning out to be!

I worked in Desktop Support for years, and I’m pretty good at it. There’s nothing I like better than finding a way around a stubborn computer mystery .. unless the computer I’m working on is my main machine. If I’m dealing with my own broken computer, I become useless and frustrated and incompetent and likely to burst into tears for no reason – and while I didn’t get to that point today, I am so fucking annoyed at my iMac that I’m starting to wonder what it would look like if I threw it out the window.

I did manage to unlock those folders, but the master password is still eluding me. Also, the locked folders don’t fully account for the missing HD space. Also, none of this may matter: I have to take the fucking machine back to the Apple store and have them figure out why Bluetooth is dead. I may have to do every single part of this over again: upgrading from SL to L, restoring from a backup, then upgrading to ML – and I kind of want to scream.

It’s not just computers I want to punch right now, though. After a long cold achy day of Doing Things, I thought to order in some food for dinner .. except what I want isn’t available because they’re not delivering right now (and Ed is out so I can’t go pick it up). I needed to eat, so I did up a crappy substitute in the form of a frozen pizza that I both managed to burn AND drop face down on the kitchen floor. Yay!

Ed ended up doing one of the tasks on my list today, which was to destroy my favourite chair and take it to the dumpster. Yay? I know the chair had to go – the cats had ruined it and it couldn’t be reupholstered – but it was the very first piece of non-essential grown up furniture I had purchased, was comfortable as all hell, and isn’t made anymore. I am sad that it is gone, and I am going to miss it.

The day wasn’t a total wash, I guess: the dollar store henna experiment turned out quite well, I managed to find a place to contain my fabric stash, and you can almost see the floor of my office. Also, I did four loads of laundry and cleaned several sinks. I got a lot done, but I am very hungry and grumpy and cold and I hate my fucking computer.

I need a do-over for this Saturday.

My Saturday isn’t going to be anywhere near as exciting as it was last week, but I think I’m okay with that. For starters, there will be no America – I can be called many things, but crazy a sucker for punishment ridiculous silly enough to attempt crossing the border during the multi-day orgy of consumerism known as Black Friday is not one of them. Also, there will probably not be a repeat of last week’s Lemon Party, which was extremely contrary to what the internet had taught me (there were no old naked men having old naked gay sex anywhere in sight) and besides, Steve has thus far successfully rebuffed my candy corn bribery to throw weekly parties for my fickle amusement.

With no lemons to be group pruned, my Saturday is going to be spent catching up on all the things I should have been doing throughout the week – random laundry (I’m down to only four black dresses to choose from; the horror), taking a crowbar to some furniture, and seeing what happens when I apply a $2 box of Korean “natural orange” henna to my head. What’s the worst that could happen?

You probably shouldn’t answer that.

I sort of hope my hair comes out green. It would actually clash a little bit less with the outfit I’m planning on wearing to the One Fancy Party I’m attending this holiday season – Korean Natural Orange and purple don’t even go together in my head, but I’m bravely forging ahead anyway. I expect my medal will be arriving any day now.

Stuff is good. On an unrelated note, I need to start nicknaming my co-workers – I know I’m a “writer” in the most sardonic possible sense, but this isn’t the Game of Thrones: I can’t just drop random characters into my tale and expect people to care when I lop their heads off in an unexpected and heart-rendering side story. Also, sometimes incest. Everyone is filthy behind castle doors.

Spectacularly lousy news out of Vancouver this week: Urban Wasp is closing down. Formerly known as Vespa Vancouver, UW has been the best place for all things Vespa/Piaggio/SYM/Aprilia for the past 6 years – they’re the only shop I’d trust to touch Lola (this is important; more on it later), they’re passionate about what they do, and everyone in the shop is awesome. I am beyond bummed out to hear they’re closing; even more so because it’s not entirely by choice: Piaggio has chosen to a) not enforce the “no dealer can be within 30 km of another dealer” agreement clause (Vancouver’s other Vespa shop is only 6km away from Urban Wasp), b) not care that they are losing an extremely popular and reliable dealer, and c) not act upon the numerous serious complaints about Vespa Metro by revoking their license (or at the very least, not renewing their contract when it comes up in March 2013). These factors, coupled with a representative who simply doesn’t care, have led Urban Wasp to close their doors for good at the end of this year.

Once Urban Wasp is gone, the only place to get certified Vespa service in Vancouver will be Vespa Metro, which is akin to a death sentence for your scooter. Metro’s mechanic is a man named Lorenzo, who has absolutely no business touching scooters: he is a disaster. Urban Wasp regularly has to fix problems caused by Lorenzo’s repair work, such as incorrectly done repairs, broken parts, enormous mistakes, accidental “fixes” with a lie to the customer that they caused it. This isn’t just hearsay; Shan’s Scarabeo 200 suffered at Lorenzo’s incompetent hands (his routine service led to a catastrophic oil leak, which caused her engine to sieze and require complete replacement .. which took them 5 months to do) – but there are countless horror stories about the shoddy work done at Vespa Metro, to the point where Piaggio has been asked to revoke their license (both for the irresponsible service levels and VM’s shady business dealings). Perhaps most damning of all, Lorenzo’s sister rides a Vespa LX50 .. and she takes it to Urban Wasp for service, because she doesn’t trust her brother to do a simple oil change and checkup on her ride.

If you’ve ever had any dealings with Urban Wasp – if you’ve been burned by Vespa Metro – if you want a reliable, responsible dealer who won’t cheat you and stands by their service department – then I beg you to email customercare@piaggiogroupamericas.com and let them know your dissatisfaction with this situation. It will royally suck for Vespa owners if we have to rely upon Vespa Metro as our sole source of scooters/parts/service/advice – and I guarantee you I would rather sell my beloved Lola than risk having her destroyed by baffling incompetence.

In order to prepare for the end of Urban Wasp, they’re having a 50% off sale – all parts, accessories, helmets, gear, clothing, security items, etc are on sale. As well, all the remaining scooters have been discounted by insane amounts – if you were ever thinking about getting yourself a new Vespa, now would be the time to do it. Urban Wasp will be open until December 31st, and they’ve still got a good selection of beautiful scooters in stock. Lie to Santa and say you’ve been a very good boy/girl, and ask for a scooter for Christmas! Buy yourself or a loved one a new helmet, or get yourself some awesome gear! If you have girl parts and have been thinking about checking out the amazing GoGo Gear jackets, Urban Wasp has some in stock (as well as Corazzo gear), all for 50% off. I picked up a whole bunch of stuff for myself last night including a new helmet with saucy ladies and some official Vespa gear to show off my classy Italian side. We can all hope that the situation will change for the better very soon, but in the meantime, help Urban Wasp move some inventory by swinging by their shop on West 4th before the end of the year.

:(

I am a total jerk, and I hate that.

Okay, “am” might be a bit of an overstatement. “Momentarily was” is more correct, but that doesn’t make it any better – I was a huge jerk and I feel really bad about it, even if I didn’t mean to be a big stupid jerky jerk pants.

I guess it’s a good thing that I’m so very comfortable with my finger words that I assume everyone can read the tone that I put into each and every sentence I write, but sometimes that can backfire – like when I’m being my usual impudent self about something, and someone misunderstands. Basically, I opened my finger-mouth a little too wide last week, and I really upset someone. I’ve since apologized profusely, but I feel utterly rotten that I hurt someone’s feelings. I try really hard to live my life by one firm rule – don’t be a dick – and last week, I failed miserably.

You can tell I’m really distressed about this, because I didn’t even mention A2M when talking about my “firm rule”.

Last time I ran my mouth off like this, I offended an entire department and was literally exiled from the cubicle farm and shunted away into a dark dusty corner where I could offend no more. This time I only offended one person (that means I’m getting better, right?) so hopefully I won’t be made to move my desk to the bathroom – but if it’s all the same to you, I will beat myself up for a little while and be sad that I am such a jerk. I suck.

unrelated: creepy murder twins.

Yesterday I went to America with Heather and Shan, and we got home just after 9. Although the couch was singing a very loud siren song, I plugged my ears and changed my clothes, grabbed a box of cookies, and went to a party downtown. After many hours of fun in the west end, I left the party and drove through two checkstops while taking two co-workers friends home so I didn’t have to worry if they’d make it back in one piece, then crawled into bed around 4am. I am exhausted and I would love to slink back into bed for napping times, but I am SO GLAD I chose to go out and be social instead of staying home to do naked crossword puzzles.

Outside is fun!

It’s a lovely fall afternoon here in downtown Vancouver, but I have so many ass marbles that objects are closer than they appear. What’s worse, none of the ass marbles are really significant enough to truly be a problem: they’re just a series of annoying little frustrations that individually don’t mean shit but all together make KIMLI SMASH and pout and stomp around on my tiny little elf legs and then fall down because I shouldn’t stomp in heels.

Among my many tiny problems:

1. I think the hard drive on my iMac is failing. I had a catastrophic OS failure in August, but things have been fine since the drive was wiped and everything reinstalled. Unfortunately, something bad is going on again and this time I fear it may be hardware related .. but that’s okay, because there’s an active recall on my machine: drives have been failing, so Apple is replacing the HDs on a whole series of iMacs. I’ll have to do the whole reinstall thing again, but that’s okay (I’m not as neurotic about it as I was with my Windows machines). So why the ass marbles? Well, my iMac is heavy and Apple stores are always in the very middle of the mall, nowhere near an entrance. WAH! Carrying my expensive compu-device in for free service is tiring! Poor, poor Kimli.
2. When we took the Mini in to exorcize the ghost in the machine, they pulled our stereo adapter (the device that allows us to charge our phones and listen to mp3s). The manufacturer thinks the device might be faulty, so they’ll send us a new one if we return the one we have. Ed, for some reason, is taking his sweet time returning the thing – which means there is no music in the car, or even worse, the RADIO. I fucking hate listening to the radio – banter enrages me. Ads make me punch things. Commercially viable music is mostly terrible, and the reception is bad all over the place. I don’t know why Ed hates me so much that he’d rather see me suffer the horrors of morning DJs than put the exchanging wheels in motion, but here we are: car trips are torturous. If Ed doesn’t send that thing in soon, I’m going to install a karaoke machine in the car and provide my own musical entertainment at the top of my lungs.
3. The third marble is a little larger: I have no passions. I’ve been doing some soul searching for the last little while in order to ferret out the funk I’m in, and I’ve realized it’s because I do not have a “thing”. For the last forever, I’ve had a “thing” in which I was completely passionate about: casting, crafting, corsets, cannibalism, video games, snails, writing, being a public nuisance, international espionage – and while I still enjoy all of those things, I’m not soap-box-passionate about them. Living a passionless life is not something I would wish on anyone, and I feel a little odd knowing that there is nothing I can consider my “thing”: how do I describe myself to others? What if I had to fill out a Playboy Playmate Profile – what would I say are my turn-ons? I don’t KNOW, and I don’t like it. I need to find a new hobby, or have an affair, or come up with a whiz-bang business idea. Something. I miss soap boxing about things that make me incandescent with feelings, instead of just radioactivity.
4. I have a headache.
5. I miss having adventures with my friends, but they are all very busy having adventures with one another and not me. I need to make some new adventure-minded friends, but I don’t know where to find them or how not to be weird and off-putting in new group (um, or any group) situations. There has to be a place somewhere for me, but I haven’t got the foggiest idea how to locate it (I miss Google Maps).

November is a bleak month. Let’s have some fancy times!

bokeh: fancy times

The words “kidney infection” instantly conjures imagery of opulence and luxury; mounds of truffled caviar and matsutake served on platinum trays by statuesque gentlemen wearing only bow ties and white gloves. Don’t be fooled by what Hollywood tells you, though – all those TV shows and movies glamorizing the kidney infection, making it seem romantic and desirable – it’s all a lie cooked up by Corporate America to sell Taylor Swift CDs and Summer’s Eve “feminine wash”. I’m here to introduce you to the cold, hard truth: kidney infections suck. They suck a whole lot. Yeah, sure, I was excited when I heard the diagnosis: a kidney infection! It’s like getting the consumption, but in my kidneys! I’ll get to do a big musical number, and Ewan McGregor will feel really bad for slut shaming me before declaring his love in anachronistic song. AWESOME! Let’s go!

Reality is never as pretty as the glossy media take on “reality”, and this kidney infection is no different. Since the diagnosis on Tuesday, I’ve had very little to feel pretty about: I’m sore, cranky, uncomfortable, and not a single big group dance number has broken out anywhere near me. I keep reading up on symptoms and side effects, but my search has taken me to some dark, uninformed corners of the internet – there doesn’t seem to be any one source of definite answers, so I’ve taken to filing every single new and interesting body hiccup as being caused by my stupid kidneys. Some of these go back several weeks – I thought they were part of the London Stomach Flu or even the nasty cold/flu thing I had last week, but it’s likely that my kidneys have been rotting for some time now and all these weird things aren’t just hauntings of my humours but signs I should have picked up on before I found myself in the ER.

A lot of what I’m experiencing makes sense, even if it’s no fun – pain, for example. Infected organs hurt, and while I was told to take Advil to dull the pain, my repeated accidental ibuprofen overdoses likely had the opposite effect on my insides (I learned too late that 3 x 400mg = 1200mg, not the 600mg I was supposed to take). The medication I’m on is introducing my urine to fabulous new forms of self expression; every trip to the bathroom is a surprise and delight. My insides make much more noise than normal, which is awkward at times. I’m a little sensitive to sunlight at the moment, so I can’t enjoy the the gorgeous fall days as robustly as I might like. All of these are annoying, but I can live with them easily enough – in fact, I’d sign up for an extended tour of duty of strange pee and noisy tummy times if only I could make the single worst kidney infection bonus gift go the fuck away:

My mouth is gross.

I have got a perpetual horrible taste in my mouth, and it will. Not. Go. Away. I am terrified to have conversations with people in close quarters for fear that my breath is as bad as the taste in my mouth; so terrible are the conditions in the dank face cave I call a word hole. This is apparently an uncommon side effect of a kidney infection, and had I not known about my ongoing kidney fun, would have been a drastic indicator that I required immediate medical attention .. but as it stands, everything is just disgusting. I don’t know how to make it stop. Nothing I do makes the taste go away – no amount of water or Diet Coke; no extended bouts with my toothbrush or mouthwash. It’s starting to worry me in addition to completely grossing me out: everything tastes awful! I am sad in my mouth hole! I’m afraid I smell bad and people are tutting me behind my back! I hate this kidney infection. I’ve basically had Something Wrong since my second week in London, and I’m pretty fed up with it all. I miss things that taste good, and not being utterly horrified at the state of emergency in my mouth.

How do I make this stop? I have more than week’s worth of antibiotics to take, but if this yuck continues much longer I may just go mad from rage and gross times. Help! My jaw is tired from chewing gum!

not even this anthropomorphic hot dog stand selling its young can fully cheer me up

My kidneys are a seething, roiling cauldron of white blood cells and LIES!

I have long since been operating under the notion that my kidneys are fucking rockstars; shining examples of health and strong investment portfolios. I may be a homely specimen with ill tempers and a lack of morals that make the elders tut as I walk by, but my kidneys have long since been lauded as brilliant. It’s one of the Great Truths in all that is Kimli: I have fantastic tits, I’m smarter than the average bear, and MY KIDNEYS ARE AWESOME. Even on my worst days, the ones where Twitter has been reporting that Romney was ahead of Obama all afternoon, I could sit back and think “at least my kidneys are fine” .. but now? Now I don’t even have THAT.

I woke up at 3 this morning with a cat on my chest and a deep ache in my right side. I didn’t think much of either, but the ache wouldn’t go away and throughout the day, got worse – a throbbing twang that made me break out into a sweat with every radiating pulse. It was bad enough that I wasn’t satisfied with simply asking Twitter what for a diagnosis: I took myself to the walk-in clinic in my building mid-morning to check in for an appointment, then went back upstairs to research appendicitis and elliptical pregnancies and Flukeman lore. Eventually my appointment time came and I sweatily hobbled back downstairs to wait for a doctor; in an alarming amount of pain the entire time.

The doctor (who was completely awesome and in 5 minutes showed more concern for me than my current pill dealer ever has – I may be making a switch; he was wearing a bright orange Hawaiian shirt for crying out loud) asked me my symptoms, then told me to get my ass over the hospital ASAP for an ultrasound: I very likely had kidney stones, and shit was about to get real bad real fast. He wrote me a note excusing me from work, gave me directions to the hospital, and told me to follow up with him afterwards; wishing me luck and haste with a comforting hand on the back. I went back to the office worried but glad I had a plan I could put into action to make all this stupid pain go away.

.. eventually. See, I got back to the office at 12:59pm and I had a 1pm meeting that I had called. I knew I needed to go to the hospital NOW, but .. well, I had a meeting to go to. So I did. I was in a lot of pain and kind of out of it, but it was an important meeting. Shut up. I take my work seriously, damnit.

After the meeting, I gathered my things and fled the office. I somehow found myself a cab and directed it to the hospital (I had to give the cab driver directions to a hospital just outside of downtown – alarming), while coordinating a planned attack with Ed in which he went home to grab the car then meet me in the ER. Luckily, the ER was quiet save for one other patient and the hen-like chatter of the admitting staff (I learned a thousand things about them, including their financial statuses and susceptibility for investment schemes). It took a little longer to get me into see a doctor than I hoped, but simply because my health wasn’t the most pressing issue in the room: rather, it was “WHERE DID YOU GET THOSE FABULOUS BOOTS?!” My admitting lady dragged everyone in the ER out from behind the glass to look at my boots, then said I have an awesome sense of style and should open a boutique in which I import all the great things I wear and sell them to other people. All of this is true – I am totally a fashion icon like Audrey or Diana – but I was also practically WRITHING IN PAIN and did not want to have a conversation about my favourite online stores and how brave I am for buying my clothes on the internet.

Thankfully, a nurse saved me by telling me I needed to give her a sample of my precious pee so I was able to get away to make an utter mess of myself. If there is a graceful, hygenic way to provide urine that doesn’t involve a flesh tube sticking out of my boxers, then I don’t know about it – but I gave up some pee, and was ushered into the hospital proper to change into a fancy gown and await my fate. A doctor came in to ask about my symptoms and agreed that I most likely had kidney stones, and would send me in for a CAT scan. Someone whisked away my urine, someone came to steal my blood, and another jabbed me with something that he promised would make me feel real good (he may not have been a doctor, now that I think about it). Momentary hilarity arose when yet another doctor came in to put stickers all over me – he was there to check my heart for some reason. He got all the way through covering me in stickers (something I could have done myself because I usually do) before he thought to ask me my name – and lo, I wasn’t the droids patient he was looking for. Off came the stickers (I think he was just trying to feel my boobs and belly fat), and I wished him luck in finding the correct patient. More waiting, some whining on Twitter, and I was given some fashionable blue booties so I could shuffle off to my CAT scan in style.

The scan, which had nothing to do with cats, was kind of neat. I got to go into a gonad-frying hospital donut (with the bed raised to 169.0 from 500.0 on account of my being so short and coincidental) and hold my breath for a series of scans, and – get this – not a single person or group of tourists had to look at my vagina. It was glorious – I stayed fully covered and no one crowded around to peep a glimpse at my famous labia. Yay! But, back to my kidneys – after the scan, the clinician (who didn’t once look at my vulva) sent me back to my waiting room and told me the doctor would be with me as soon as my results were ready.

I hadn’t been in the room for long when Ed showed up, so I had some company and a witness to my diagnosis: as usual, the fancy and gold-standard of medical scans showed nothing at all. I don’t actually HAVE kidney stones .. but judging by the enormous number of white cells in my urine and blood, I have one hell of a raging kidney infection. The doctor prescribed me a whole lot of antibiotics and Advil, then sent me home with a dire warning that should I feel at all worse in the next 48 hours, I was to get myself back to the hospital IMMEDIATELY (meetings be damned). Ed drove me home, then filled my prescription for me while I slept until the mystery painkillers wore off – and that’s where we are now: a whole lot of pain but a clear plan for getting better, and the best news to come out of America in four years (YAY OBAMA!).

I don’t actually know where this infection came from, but I will be glad when it’s gone. In the meantime, I kind of hurt a lot – I’m in for an uncomfortable night, but at least I can stop having nightmares about rich white men starting WWIII from a seat of significant power.

I’ve fallen into an uncomfortable blog habit, and it’s causing me untold amounts of anxiety. For the past few months, I’ve been trying to update less – give myself a bit of a break, as it were. I had been writing almost daily for over 11 years, and I was a little worn out (not to mention running out of stories to tell), so instead of shutting things down entirely, I thought that I’d write fewer posts and relish the time off in between. For a while, it was going well: I’d blog something, then by the time I felt I should blog again, I’d have something to say. I get a break, you get a break, and we’ll meet up again afterward all refreshed and looking forward to reconnecting. It’s kind of like makeup sex, only without the angry orgasms.

Unfortunately, the time between posts is getting longer and longer, and every time I think “I really need to update” I find myself staring a huge blank wall. Things are going on; I just .. don’t feel like writing about them. And then I feel guilty, and then I start to wallow in anxiety, and no shit sometimes I actually can’t sleep at night because I can’t stop freaking out about the lack of writing I’m doing. It’s not a good headspace at all, and I feel guilty about feeling guilty and the whole goddamn thing starts all over again.

There’s a level of interaction I’ve grown used to with my blog, and that has dwindled away to nothing. The advent of Twitter, Facebook and Instagram have spread people too thin, and no one comments anymore. I miss that; miss the feedback I used to get from people who read my words. It’s a selfish way to feel, because I’ve always been adamant that I write for me and not for comments or likes .. but now the comments are gone, I’ve forgotten why I’m sharing. Blogging has never before felt like I was speaking to an empty wall, but it’s what I’m experiencing now: a whole lot of “why bother?”. If I can’t muster up the effort required to care about the things I do on a daily basis, how can I expect others to care?

Of course, because I’m not clever enough to look at this ocean of ennui as a scientific experiment or anything, I’m worried that I’m falling into my standard depressive cycle again – but one so insidious that I’m not even fully aware of it. I really hate the “why bother” of it all, because to me that’s the worst possible emotion someone could feel about anything – it’s beyond upset and beyond giving up, it’s just .. why? It’s terrible; an endless nothing devoid of joy or anger or cookies. I’m pretty sure I’m practically pathologically afraid of feeling that way, and to feel it all over something so close to my heart? To not give a rat’s ass over something I’ve spent a third of my life cultivating? That can’t be real; it must be astral interference with my midichlorians. Makes perfect sense.

What if it’s not, though?

What if I’m just out of things to say?

The main thing keeping me from closing up shop is the loss of identity I’d feel. I still struggle over losing pieces of my past that I really loved, and the last thing I’d want to do is introduce another. I do wish I could shake this anxiety and get back to Ridiculous Inappropriate Adventure .. but even that’s changed now. All the people I used to Adventure with have moved on, but I’m still here. It’s hard to drag people outside to do things with me, so I either don’t do things or I do them by myself and grow too comfortable internalizing everything. I don’t know. There are a thousand things that could be playing a part in this terrible outfit of “MEH” I’m wearing. I don’t know if it’s worth additional therapy (hey Doc, I don’t want to write about my vagina: what’s wrong with me?), but I don’t feel much like myself and .. I miss me. Where you at, me? Come back.

And where you at, the rest of you? Are you still out there? I miss you, too.

well? is it?