Fiddle Faddle

The big screen TV has left the building. A young man in a black pick-up truck drove it off into the sunset. Besides the big gaping hole in our hearts and living room, we're left with spending money for our fact finding mission.

I am now to compile a list of previous residences and job histories and the property managers of apartments past into a ginormous cheatsheet. I am to practice my response to the question, "So, where are you working now?" I am also to fold laundry, pack, and think about returning emails without actually doing anything at all.

It's a damn shame that you can't get a job without a local residence, but you can't get a local residence without a job (or a steady source of income, hello unemployment checks!).

Since Jer sold his desk, he wanders around aimlessly, lost, fingers hovering, typing into dead air. His computer parts are scattered to the four corners of the office, dusty and forgotten. And to stave off the boredom, he keeps making me pack stuff. Send help.

Thank you to everybody who sent me birthday wishes. I keep meaning to send back individual replies but I keep convincing myself I already did, when I didn't, because I'm crazy. And not very nice. Surprise!

As hopelessly fascinating as this all is, I better go do something before Vash stabs me in the face again. That cat can be a right bastard.