Workety work. Through the murk.

I say "Jaci has just revealed to me that she can talk to dogs."
erispope says "Anyone can talk to dogs. I do it all the time. Do the dogs talk back?"
I say ". . . that is, word for word, what keshwyn said to me."
erispope dies!
I say "The Felding Hivemind strikes."
erispope chokes on soda. But really, do they talk back?
I say "Well, one asked her why they were there, another asked her why her mate wasn't moving, a third asked her if he was going to recover, and then they got down to discussing how best to flush quarry out of hiding."
erispope's poor dog tries to talk to her a great deal, generally at the top of his lungs. He must be English, since he's convinced volume will make up for lack of linguistic ability.

583 words on section 91, 1189 total, and that makes it done.
504 on section 91, which is also done.

It's good to work again; a pity it doesn't clear the muh out of my head. Yes, brooksmoses, I'm taking my bloody vitamins.

Head hurty. And so tired. Someone signed me up for the telemarketer sweepstakes, every hour on the half hour, all through my central sleep period. So I'm going to bed early. 1087 words is plenty respectable.

Putting a Life in Order

Preferably mine.

I spent a huge section of today going through the course offerings at reasonably local colleges and universities trying to see if any of them had the courses that I wanted to take. (If I'm reading BU's course catalog right, they have classes in Zulu but not in Polish. Now, I'll be the first to say that classes in Zulu are just terrifically cool, but not what I'm looking for.) (Not that BU is as convenient as it was back when we lived smack between BU and BC, but hey, who's counting.)

I'm slowly grinding around to the conclusion that I want to learn how to drive, only ten years after most of the people I know came to that conclusion. The prospect still terrifies me, but the fact that it terrifies me is mattering less and less as I ponder the possibility of needing to get to classes and the possibility that we may move up to near the New Hampshire border sometime in the next couple of years. Getting me a car while we're in this house is probably about as plausible as the parrot: where would we put it? So no immediate hurry.

In more immediate contemplations, am making sure to correct the plausibility on going to this year's PantheaCon in a month so that I can inarow my ducks. And send in my registration and make plane reservations and figure out how long I can stay with brooksmoses and suzimoses before I become annoying and all that good stuff.

Am getting terribly wary of the number of people who respond to me saying things are shiny with, "You've got a birthday coming up!"

So that's the broadly flavored arc of what's going on in my head, in amongst the other miscellanea. My father will be happy. (He's been wanting to know when I'm going back to school approximately since I dropped out, and has been of the opinion that if I'm not going back to school I should at least learn to drive.)

I like my stupid life just the way it is, and the chaos that surrounds me like a flock of screaming pigs . . .