Well, I've managed to get the boxes from the post office into the apartment. Two trips back and forth from the post office, 20 trudges up and down the stairs, one heart attack, one embolism, 653 exclamations of, "Son of a fucking bitch, you cock-sucking bastards!" I may have scandalized my neighbor's wife.

I don't think I can have children anymore. When I think what good shape I used to be in 20 years ago. What a slovenly pig I've become. I'm simultaneously revolted and hungry.

I'm only going to open the kitchen boxes right now. I heard tinkling glass out of one of them. To be expected I suppose.

Regarding getting the car to the mechanic: I've changed my mind and decided to set the thing on fire and drive it into a quarry.
  • Current Mood: sweaty, ooo la la
Oh, let me be there when you do! Promise!

Yes, I notice that not only do parts of my body wiggle long after I stop naked wiggling in front of the mirror, which is revolting and simultaneously mesmerizing, but everything is heading south.
Hey! Did you go to the post office downtown with the postmaster who is almost dead? My boss has actually used him as an example in meetings of the importance of taking a zen approach to things out of your control.

My friend E attempted to buy three books of stamps from him yesterday, paying for two with 2 $20s, and one credit card. This took about 15 minutes and involved a serious discussion about the nature of change at the post office. I had change for one of the $20s, otherwise we might have been there still
My boxes were at the Alhambra branch. I hadn't realized, but probably should have, that the United States Post Office possibly employs zombies.