Long day. Dead on feet.

New apartment’s not bad. Scurfier than my last place–it’s an older building, so the cupboards are haphazard and ancient and the appliances mostly pre-date me. No patio railing, so I’ll have to do something inventive with shrubs and whiskey barrel planters if I want to define any psychological space outside.

But it’s definitely a good bit bigger, and I can plant a birdfeeder and birdbath directly into the ground outside the sliding glass door. And there’s more counter space. And hell, I’m a starving artist–if my digs aren’t at least a little scruffy, I think I have to turn in my beret or something.

Tomorrow evening, I get all my boxes out of Deb’s garage. (Glory!) And then I’ll probably spend a few hours assembling bookcases and my computer desk. Since I am about as mechanically inclined as a retarded peacock, there is a chance that I will be crushed under cheap MDF and spend my last tormented hours attempting to saw my leg off with an allen wrench. If so, O Readers, avenge my death! Go to Staples and kick the display models a coupla times for me!

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