Thoroughly enjoying my semester in Gainesville. I drive around grinning constantly, especially downtown.

I'm on a committee called RUB Entertainment, which is broken up into four subcommittees: bands, lecturers & comedians, films, and promotions. Shock of all shocks, I'm on bands. Our mission statement, if we had one, would probably say something about bringing free, badass music to UF students. We have a Local Brew every Thursday at a cafe/bar on campus which showcases local artists for three hours, then once a month we participate in Gator Nights when we bring a more recognized act, then we have our national act annually. Two years ago it was Flaming Lips, last year it was TV on the Radio, and this year it was Deerhunter.

Sometimes I work events, sometimes I contact bands to play for us, but mostly I just drink and go to theme parties with my fellow committee members. If I only got to pal around with other elementary education majors, I'd set myself on fire.

I've been really fortunate this semester as far as seeing non-RUB related shows, too. Andrew Bird and Demetri Martin were by far the best. Ladytron & the Faint in Atlanta tomorrow, nothing in May so far, then Animal Collective in June.

For the first time, I'm really in love with being the age that I am. Glory glory.

After not getting accepted to the University of Florida, I was accepted to the University of Florida. It's possible. People who are not you do not care about your transcripts or their timely arrival anywhere. I'd like to take more responsibility, but short of hand delivering them, I was all about persistence.

But no matter, for January 6 will find me in a classroom on the University of Florida campus. An actual, discernible step forward. I couldn't be happier.

Well, I could. I'm sick about this Amendment 2/Proposition 8/Proposition 102 backslide. The only silver linings to a truly dismal, disappointing outcome is: 1) I'm more resolved than ever to get involved: joining a gay-straight alliance, petitions, donations, sign making, you name it. 2) It's an issue of such cultural, moral significance for my generation, and it will continue to be brought up until equality is more than nominal. I often wonder how history will remember us.

My tonsillectomy was two weeks ago, and no solid food yet. Friday, maybe.

For the first time in my life, I keep a datebook. Usually when I buy a planner, the first month gets filled out and then it ends up stuffed in my drawer until the calendar year is over. But this one I've kept up with, and it's seen quite a bit of play here recently. I could get used to this "being busy" joint.

Just taking one class this semester - Public Speaking - since I only need one elective to graduate. My application to UF is still being reviewed. I don't think "reviewed" means to me what it means to the admissions officers. To me, it implies that it has been looked at.

I spend most of my nights bartending at a wine bar. Patrons come to drink wine, eat cheese, watch television, and talk to interesting people. Which is, coincidentally enough, exactly what I do, except I get paid.

I'm still working at the urological center, but I've broken into medical assisting.

And out of those two jobs, you'd think I'd be more likely to meet a promising guy at the bar. Because that would make too much sense, I am actually dating someone I met at the pee doctor's. His name's Chris, and there's a couple of pictures of him on my facebook from the time we went kayaking. He's 25, but not in a creepy way; his brain smarts and sense of humor are ridiculous; he's impressed by and respectful of the fact that I don't have sex; and finally, I could totally feel OK about having sex with him. Not just because he's clean and discreet and sweet but he's just mind-blowingly hot. Like, out-of-my-league-hot. And neither of us really wants a relationship seeing as how he's literally always traveling, so we've kind of settled on this friends with very few benefits gig. He's invited me to come to Nashville soon, which I feel would be quite... beneficial.

I'll be getting a tonsillectomy very soon. For reasons too gross to mention, these bitches have to come out. Hopefully I can get it done and heal up before Nashville, because frankly, I wouldn't want to make out with me.

Just now things feel right.

The first day of any job is nerve-wracking. I doubt, though, that any first day has been so perplexing as mine at the News Herald.

"Take this test, Intern," says the lady in the peasant dress and vest. A test? Surely more like a skills evaluation? Not a test?

Question one: List the three branches of government and the enumerated powers of each and how each interacts with the others in the system of checks and balances.

The rest of the 50-minute test continues in this vein, with answers I haven't really known since finals week of eighth grade. I finish and walk out into the central newsroom. Think Mary Tyler Moore, but with computers in place of typewriters. A man, seemingly important, tells me to sit across a desk from him.

"Intern, what do you know about cycling?" Day, get weirder. I freaking dare you.
"Cycling? Bi...cycling? Biking?"
Face falls. "Just cycling. Tour de France. Tires, chains, handlebars."
"Not enough to speak of, sir."
"Not 'sir.' Never again, Intern."
We then preceded to watch eleven minutes of epic cycling crashes.

Finally, the jolly, non-intimidating boss saved me. I met one of the other interns (journalism major at UF) and the film guy, Tony (?). Maybe-Tony had posters for a few Tim Burton films and thus my instant respect.

In other news, I finally like my friends. I'm learning to play guitar and drive a standard from a couple of the regulars.

It's 3:30 am. I'm due at the paper by 9:00. I'd like to title my first piece, "Why Do I Do the Things That I Do?"

"Your transfer application to the University of Florida for the 2009 Spring term has been received.
Preference is given to junior-level applicants with 60 or more semester hours of credit from accredited colleges and universities, and priority is given to Associate of Arts degree candidates from Florida public community colleges.
Students wishing to transfer to the University of Florida with fewer than 60 credit hours should have alternative plans in case their applications are not among the limited number we are able to approve.
Information about your application status is provided online as a convenience. While every effort is made to be timely and accurate, information conveyed by electronic means is unofficial. An official written notification of admission will be mailed to your permanent address. Please do not act on any information until you have received official notification."

Shut up, you. I am those things you are flapping about. Except for the undesirable things. And the fact that this is the screen which has greeted me for the past three weeks is anything but convenient.

I honestly think I'm sore they didn't send me a personal e-mail within five minutes of receiving my application detailing all the dark chocolate and Italian leather they'd be willing to bend my way to ensure my enrollment.

A few reasons this may not have played out:
"The University of Florida was founded in 1853, and is considered a Public Ivy."

Oh.

"The University of Florida is the second-largest university in the United States, with 51,913 students as of fall 2007."

Oh!

"It is the largest comprehensive university in the state of Florida and has one of the largest budgets in the United States nearly $4.377 billion per year."

Ohh!

"Applicants 27,865
Admits 10,289"

oh

"Due to budget constraints, UF will admit one-third fewer transfer students."

...

There's only so many times I can hear "too smart to become a teacher" before I start considering it as a valid possibility. I considered a lot of multisyllabic fields before teacher won out. Criminalist, physical therapist, dermatologist. I figured I was too simple to be much of an ist.

Growing up, I wanted to be an author or a cop. I'm embarrassed to admit how much interning at the paper this summer means to me. If I end up editing the townie sex escort classifieds I'll be crushed.

And as for the cop fantasy, I loved the idea of sidling up to the sound of the driver's side window sinking into the door, tapping my reflective aviators, and ultimately letting the perpetrator off with a tongue-in-cheek warning. I wanted to be a cool cop. There is not a lot of call for that kind of cop.

Plus my dad told me I'd probably shoot a lot of people unnecessarily out of uneasiness. Probably. There is not a lot of call for that kind of cop, either. But now that I think of it, there's not a lot of call for that kind of teacher.

You want to know the real truth of it? I'm most excited about the outfits. I don't think that should be your top concern when considering your career. Unless you're a fashion model. Then that's probably ok.

My Poppy called this evening. I'd sent him a card to let him know I was thinking of him and he called to let me know he'd received it and to relate his appreciation because he's a sweetheart like that. I told him how things are at the moment: very busy, mostly.

"So, you think you're busy? Try not to worry about it, Kate. You're going to look back on these as the absolute best years of your life."

And I began to cry.

Losing weight is easy. Getting over a bad haircut is not.

My mom has been my hairdresser since I broke the bitch's water. I can trust her with a color and a trim. But Heaven preserve us if I ever get the notion for bangs.

Each time I ask for bangs (typically every election year - I've had time to forget past traumas), they are cut in the exact same way as the time before, except they somehow manage to get more hideous with age.

I cut out pictures, I give instructions, I make fucking diagrams. And yet it is the same.

Oh, how I'd love to go to an actual salon and pay money for a cut (at least then I could unleash some anger; I consider accepting that a pretty integral part of the hairdressing profession). But if the word 'salon' even comes up, my mom puts on her best Ol' Yeller-barrel-of-the-gun-face. And I'm done.

But man, I look like an asshole.

My sister woke me up this morning because I was loudly repeating "I LOVE YOU" in my sleep. She didn't say it was loud, but she's a hallway across from me and our doors were shut.

I've applied for UF for spring 2009.
I've put on around ten pounds from cereal alone. That's not me exaggerating how much I like cereal: those are concrete figures of Earth's gravity and my weight.
I have been a beast since spring break ended. I've just gotten mean and grouchy.
I present my Kodomo No Hi lesson plan in Diversity Ed tomorrow morning. It's cute and A-worthy.
A woman at my office is a dead-ringer for Angela from The Office in terms of personality. It's a lot funnier when it's a TV show and not a soul-crushing reality.

Chapter 12 of American National Government deals with Civil Liberties. I had to research the Alien & Sedition Acts of 1798. I post my findings on the course forum as instructed. What I remembered from American History was that the Acts were passed into law by John Adams and outlawed seditious sentiments, publications, t-shirts etc. etc. Also, immigrants in the US could be deported or detained if their respective country was at war with or posed a threat to the US.

To anyone using over 2% of their mental faculties, these laws are bunk. But I go to a community college. 2% is a gross overestimation.

I give you, verbatim, a reply to my post:

"I THINK ITS A SHAME ONLY THE ALIEN SEDITION ACT STILL EXCISTS TODAY. WE NEED THAT ONE BUT THE OTHER 3 SEEM PLAUSIBLE AS WELL. THE NATURLIZATION ACT IS THE ONLY ONE I CAN UNDERSTAND BEING ARGUED AND EVENTUALLY THROWN OUT. BUT THE SAFETY OF OUR COUNTRY AND THE SECURITY OF TRUTHFUL HONEST WRITING TOWARDS THE GOVERNMENT IS IMPORTANT TO ME. YOU WOULD BE SURPRISED HOW MANY PEOPLE READ AND RESPOND TO NON-GOVERNMENTAL PAPERS LET ALONE ACTUAL GOV. PAPERS"

Hmm.

1) Don't shout at me. We are in the same chat room and I can hear you fine.
2) Out of the four laws passed, the Alien Enemies act is the only one which was not immediately repealed by Thomas Jefferson upon appointment to office. The other three were ruled unconstitutional. Let me hold your hand, here, because it gets kind of tricky. I will even utilize the manner of speaking to which you are accustomed:

THE FIRST AMENDMENT MEANS PEOPLE SAY THINGS AND IT'S OK. THE SEDITION ACT MEANS PEOPLE CAN SAY THINGS IF THEY ARE GOOD, BUT OTHER THINGS AREN'T OK.

3) "Read & respond to non-governmental papers"?? Who does this??! I need names!!!
4) I called The Government. They don't want your help.

Oh God this girl needs to be ripped a new one in such a desperate way.
Replies I'm considering:
"That's fucked."
"You're fucked."
"I hate you."


Counterintelligence, indeed.

I spent Spring Break in Boston. More specifically, at Andrew's house. More specifically, on Andrew's couch.

Low levels of discomfort. Namely because I saw Andrew a grand total of four and a half minutes. The rest of the time was spent with friends of some manner. The best times I had were either alone or with Ashley, my one-time roommate. If you'll kindly remember, Ashley is me in three years if I eat marijuana every day in the meantime.

It took this trip to make me understand the Civil War. Slavery and succession were clever ruses. In truth, the southerners were sick of being associated with the unfortunate-looking ladies of the north. Or perhaps just Boston. Or maybe southern guys didn't like being compared to the preponderance of svelte northern gentlemen. If you spend enough time thinking about this, history begins making more and more sense. Even recent history falls into place: hi Massachusetts legalizing gay marriage. Your bitches are fug and your men are godly.

Trip Makers:
I met the most amazing woman on the flight from Memphis to Boston. I mean, I'm always super-pleased when my seat partner doesn't drop deuces or smell like vegetable lasagna, but this lady was certifiably c double o l.
Fenway Park.
Fuck that. Not just Fenway Park. All Boston landmarks are entirely awe-inspiring and beautifully overwhelming. If I'm honest, I cried every single time I went into the city.
Returning with everything I left with! No muggings! (I'll address the downside of this trip maker in short order.)
Smoking and drinking with Ashley while watching Superbad & Heavyweights.
Superbad.
Finding an apron at Urban Outfitters.
Mike's Pastry in the North End is epic. Pure ecstasy in the form of tasty confections.
The T!
Retrieving some sorely missed DVDs and coats.

Trip Breakers:
A somewhat awkward four and a half minutes.
Returning with everything I left with. Unfortunately, I felt somewhat down for some sex this break. Didn't happen, and I partially blame my anti-rape wardrobe.
The Anti-Christ, shrewdly disguised as a Logan Airport employee. Never in my life have I so severely abused the phrase "cunt punt."

No thanks to Mr. Four and A Half, I achieved closure on a break up which made me question daily the value I possess outside of the triangle between my legs. It turns out, a lot. Lots and lots of value. Ironically, it was that realization which directly led to me feeling ready to have sex.

Upon my return, I made a run to Coldstone Creamery for a friend at work. I got a free cake batter flavored milkshake from the dashing server just for being cute. Let's see a girl from Boston pull that.

Single does not mean lonely. Not desperate, not wistful, not looking.

Yeah, hi. I just had every emotion I possessed kicked shitless, and I'm really wondering where exactly I can sign up for that again.

I'm like that ex-chain smoker, post-tracheotomy. Old bitter battle ax venomously opposed to my previous vice.

Really, I just hate being set up. I hate the presumption that I have time to talk on the phone about my favorite movies or that I even want to meet your really good friend from kindergarten you've reconnected with through Facebook who's up for the week. I wish this had happened fewer than three times. Or at least close.

This young man today picked flowers for me that matched my blouse as he walked me to my car. I wanted to puke.

At least the perverts are up front about it.

"Hey girl, are you old enough to come on a boat ride?" (He is 40-50)
Probably not. Also, I'm standing in this line to order a bagel. P.P.S. You are 40-50.
"After I order these sandwiches, all I need is a couple packs of beer and a skinny brunette." (Attempts to wink seductively or has mini-stroke)
Sorry, can't give you either.

I got the first season of The Office (U.S.) in my Easter basket and have been watching it all evening. And just a-boohooing. It upsets me that Jim is devoted to Pam in such a dear way. Yes, I've seen all of them before, and yes I've seen all the episodes since, but it's just tragic. I fancy myself the female equivalent of Jim. And me and Jim, you see, are nice guys. And nice guys with nice hair, like me and my pal Jim, tend to finish in a less than favorable position. There are just too many Roys in the world.

I just fell asleep sitting up. Last night I fell asleep on the loveseat until 5:30 this morning. I believe most of my perceived problems could be solved with a few nights of natural, rhythmic sleep.

I can't be pissed at anything tangible right now. Nothing I can storm up to and sock in the eye. Insomnia. Stress. Fucking Valentine's Day.

I'll have my AA this summer. I think I'm applying to University of Florida. I want to meet good people. I want to stop believing I expect too much from human beings.

Why am I emotional lately? It's not PMS - I won't get my period any time soon. In the first place, I've had maybe ten in the past five years. Also, I've lost ten pounds in the past month. I am slightly over 5'9". I am 105 pounds. February has just been the fucking month of my nightmare. I cried while watching The Office tonight.

I'm learning Spanish in microscopic increments. Mariposas is my favorite word so far.

Restless and bored bored bored. And sexually frustrated! I can't express how much I hate watching television and yet that's all I seem to do anymore outside of school & work. Well, no - I'm painting a Harry Potter birdhouse. But I watch TV while I do that.

I should never have gotten a boyfriend, because it no longer seems like a luxury - more a necessity. I mean, it seems terribly unfair, doesn't it? I'm pretty hot, smarter than most Education majors, financially set, and hymenally intact. I am a bad bitch.

What I need now is another piercing.

No one of my generation should be forced to take Technology for Teachers. How to make a Word document! Resizing ClipArt! Minimizing a window!

When I get my teaching degree, I'm going to create a class like "Sexual Awkwardness for Fifteen-Year-Old Boys" or "Being a Dickhead for DMV Employees."

I had an advising appointment at the college this morning. The adviser for Elementary Education also happens to be my only on-campus teacher. So of course I overslept. More than a little. I also had a test at 9:30 with this man. I walk in at 9:55 and he just laughs and laughs. He says we are the same person. I hope that's true. I hope when I'm a teacher I just laugh at all the blatant disrespect thrust upon me.

I'm in a class called Teaching Diverse Populations. I find it amusing that the class consists entirely of young, privileged, white females.

My Technology for Teachers instructor is a cocksucker. That's a phrase I reserve for cheating boyfriends and other severe toolboxes, so you have to know this guy's lame in a real way.

The hardest part of breaking up is missing a Girl Talk set.

Honorable mention goes to crying all night, feeling too sick to eat, and having to explain the former two to every member of my family.

A week later, I'm hovering near being OK. I can't say I didn't see it coming, and I can't say I didn't have fun while it lasted.

It's hard to take life too seriously for long. You can only ask yourself, "Why can't he just love me?" so many times before you answer, "Well... who fucking cares?" You take inventory at that point, and realize that you wouldn't hurt so bad had it not been so much fun, and who doesn't need a bit of fun?

The upside of breaking up is that people are straight up lining up to give you laundry lists of your greatness. My sister, who has always thought I was a lesbian until very recently, wants to set me up with one of her classmates and calls me constantly to check on me. I like being told I'm too pretty, too good, too nice, too smart, too mature. Untrue, but kind.

Also, you get your meals paid for with astonishing regularity.

A few people I met while in Boston have invited me to come stay with them. That's comforting. I really didn't want to lose that part of my life.

I liked his friends and family a good deal, so that's kind of a drag. It's unnecessary to talk too much about how I felt about Andrew - had I loved him any less I could've poisoned him a million times. Jokes. But man. There's not a whole lot I wouldn't have done for that kid. Except fuck him. Still never did that.

Really should have gone to see Girl Talk.

Dorchester (the area of Boston in which I lived) has a Malibu Beach. Having never seen the Other Malibu Beach, I can say with absolute certainty that THIS Malibu Beach is its antithesis and its superior. There are some very nice birds, which are known to me only as Free Birds.

Boston is Great: A List
Yards here are not coated in grass, but LEAVES. Enormous, soft, bright leaves four inches deep all over the ground. (I wrote this a while ago. The leaves are now replaced by a white powder known as snow.)
Fruit nectar. Until recently, I had never drunk a peach. No longer.
Everything is accessible without driving. The T is a system no native Bostonian appreciates, but I think is fantastic. You can go ANYWHERE, for say, two bucks. Reading the paper while riding over the Charles River is the most underrated activity ever.
My roommate. Ashley is me in three years if I eat marijuana every day until then. She protects me on our nighttime excursions by wielding a letter opener.
Dunkin' Donuts. These people are serious about Dunkin'. If anyone ever concocts a mixture of Sam Adams and a Dunkin' Donuts Coolata, they could fucking own Boston.
Vegetarian cuisine. It goes beyond grilled cheese! Who knew?
The space from Andrew's hip to his shoulder. I wake up there every morning and sleep there every night.
Record shops. Fifty cents for Joan Baez covering something like 24 Bob Dylan songs. What!

Now I am back in Florida, and it seems I'll be here until at least the end of the spring semester. I changed my major to Elementary Education, and hopefully situations will allow me to ship back up to Boston in the fall. Until then, I've already bought tickets to go back December 27 - January 8. "Home" is a crazy concept. On the flight to Florida, I kept thinking "I can't wait to go back home." Home being Boston.

I'm reading the Unbearable Lightness of Being. I think I might actually be Tereza. I'm always uncomfortable to see that much of myself in a character. I feel very figured out.

The biggest problem I've had since coming back to PCB is feeling bored. I miss always having something to do. I've considered getting a job - either at my favorite coffee shop or Victoria's Secret. I have to decide which of my vices I'd rather fuel.

My purse got snatched by a dude on a bike Wednesday. I fell on the gravel and my knee still looks like a pistachio. Contents of purse: around $150, iPod, ID, checking account info, cell phone, gift certificates... and, you know, just life shit. Things I was keeping out of sentimentality. It could very easily have been a sign that I don't belong here. Luckily I am stubborn and I refuse to let one bad incident or one dickhead change what I know to be the right thing. Staying the course.

I need a job in a real way now. I have to figure out how to use the public transportation they have around here, or I'll end up working at National Wholesale Liquidators, simply because it's in walking distance.

Everyone I've met is just fucking cool. I like Andrew's friends, and I like our roommate, and Andrew himself isn't terrible, either. The first night I was here he had to play an Ed in the Refridgerators (REUNIONOMG) show in Worcester. There were blow-up animals and lots of improvised extreme sports. All healthy fruit bars are gross.

Then the drink-themed Halloween party, for which Andrew was Magic Hat and I was uncomfortable. Actually, it was good fun, and at any rate it was better than the following two days of BANDBANDBAND and showering in high school gym locker rooms and eating the inside of my stomach.

The night of Game 4 was excellent. Two cheese pizzas and one free Diet Coke into the game, the final pitch was thrown and the entire pub went stone-cold nuts. These gents next to us ordered us shots of what had to have been mouth wash, but I drank it anyway, because it was a beautiful night to be in Boston.

I've found that I am quite the Domestic. Interesting!

So I'm moving Friday morning. The anxiety I can deal with, the packing I cannot. One suitcase is devoted solely to underwear, I shit you not, and I can't see a way to get to Boston with fewer than three suitcases and a carry-on.

I don't know if I'm taking the spring semester off, if I can get a scholarship anywhere near my house, what kind of job I'll get to make rent, if I'll be able to make rent, how I'll deal with sharing an apartment with two people, sharing a twin bed with another person, how I'll get by showering in a shower that has less water pressure than I do, how I'll handle the cold, how I'll handle being almost always by myself in a new city over a thousand miles from home, how I'll deal with being poor - I just don't know anything. Truly, I am awash with unknowing.

I haven't been able to get real sleep in for weeks.

And here's the thing, the truly scary thing of it: in the midst of all of it sits this new, completely fantastic relationship with a nice boy. The nice boy who offered up his bed, home, and life. So my inability to effectively nurse any other relationship in my life hopefully isn't too indicative of our future. And again, I just don't know. I lack the finesse I think a relationship takes, and way too often I find myself wishing I hadn't said something but in the moment I just have to. I have to bring shit up when I know it'll cause a ruckus because... I'm a masochist? I don't know. I'm just worried about moving to a place where he will be the only friend I have for a while, because I don't want to talk to him about how I feel, because how I feel is typically fucking wrong. But I don't want to always worry if how I feel is justified. Sometimes I'd like to rant. I want to hate the way he rolls his toothpaste, tell a friend about it, then come home and never mention it again.

Things I'm looking forward to: making breakfast, taking walks, making new friends, watching movies on the couch, going grocery shopping, looking at snow, playing in snow, reading in my new bed, finding a job, hearing fun accents, making out, bundling up, holding hands, learning how to play chess, arguing, concerts, trying new food, being in love, getting out of my house, and just laughing a lot.

I'm giving up quite a bit, namely the school deal. I have a nice set up here, where it's all paid for anywhere in Florida, and it's not all paid for in Mass. Not even sort of close.

I'll figure it out. This isn't wrong, I really know that. I can't wait.

community college is ok. it wouldn't be any less blowful at a serious university, i think. i just have no clue what i want to do for the rest of forever so i can't see the practical application of any class i take.

i've started to hope there is no afterlife, because if this life is supposed to be practice, i've not improved yet. in the game of my own life, i'd never make mvp.

i might start doing transcription at the urology office for some bucks. that appeals to me pretty well, i enjoy really cut-and-dry work, and if it happens to involve typing about weiners, so be it.

despite all my complaining i am loving life a whole lot. i get the feeling that i've got it all figured out, and i just have to remember all the steps.

this weekend was boss. hung out with some kid, saw a guy getting a beej, learned the word beej, and visited the world's friendliest waffle house.

"can you pick up 8 tomorrow from the beach house and take him to the other beach house?"
ok

"can you watch 3 while i go shopping at the outlet mall?"
sure

"will you make sure the dog hasn't made all over the floor, she's got runny bowels."
that sounds about right

work is funny. writing a book wouldn't even be fair, this shit writes itself.

i've told the kids not to interrupt me in the bathroom, unless it's an emergency, because i promise i will be out in a second and it's kind of the only privacy i ask for.

knock knock
"4, i'm in the bathroom"
"i know, but it's important"
"yeah"
open door
4 squeezes my leg
"i love you, ms. katie"

so that part is ok.

i only have six days left of work.

sometimes i fall asleep at work, which is ok, they told me, if the four-year-old is asleep, too. but sometimes he's not and i just nod off. i hate getting "caught" like a child, and i'm not a big fan of being reprimanded, either. i spend every day with the kids, and every evening at the hospital, and sometimes i just get tired. but it's a job, and i feel like a dick for complaining about not being able to sleep sometimes. whatever. i love my job i love my job i love my job.

i. can. not. wait. to. get. out. of. here. i helped some friends move to orlando last weekend and that was epic. everything is on one street and, unlike pcb, you can walk almost everywhere.

once i feel less boring i'll update again.