am currently lost in the weeds trying to compose a sternly worded, yet non-inflammatory, letter to a network about an unfortunate choice of words in one of their shows.

sigh.

all i want to do is send them a postcard that says, "we think you suck!"
...
am also preparing to go home and begin packing.
yesterday, i came home to find that Roomie had practically built a fort of boxes and had filled the apartment with so much Oust (to cover the stress smoking) that i could taste it. i could barely see Roomie's head over the top of the fort.

'hey, lady,' i said. 'building a fort?'
the boxes were so high i just heard a mumble.
'huh?'
then came the pitiful reply from Roomie:
'mumble mumble ... tired.'

it had begun, people. the slow, exhausting process of extricating two people from one domicile to move into another. (don't even get me started on how long i've taken to choose my paint colors for my bedroom and bathroom.)