gnnnh. (more real life stuff.)

I should have gone to bed at four am, actually went to bed at six thirty, and was woken up at seven because i still need to pack shit because we're moving the last of the furniture tomorrow.

D: WAIT WHAT NOT EVEN HALF MY SHIT IS PACKED UP.

Also the adress switch for the phone line is almost instantaneous, but the internet is gonna take "a few days". *commences withdrawal* nnnnnnnoooo. ToT

... maybe that will make me write... hahaha i kid. *eyes piles of "to read at some point" e-books warily*

Bah, my time is going to be pretty full what with actually moving in that place and deciding where I want the furniture to go and shit, so I doubt I'll have any time left to do either.

T^T my home noez.

Sorry I haven't been replying to many comments, I'm kind of out of sorts between the return from vacation backlog and the moving and the sleep deprivation. I lose and suck. *flops*


Somehow what hurts the most (with the loss of my pretty trees-with-a-few-houses landscape view and the gain of an ugly up-slope and a line of garages blocking half of the sky) is that I'm gonna have to throw out my first two computers. Especially the prehistoric Apple MacIntosh, seeing as, as of now, he is a very imposing dustbunny fortress of massive dustbunnitude, towering over my room from the lofty heights of my big cupboard.

Also known to moonlight as a high-tech paperweight.

But in his slow, buggy, ridiculously useless entrails, he still holds 80 pages of my first ever novella. And twelve years later I still cannot help but cling to the hope that one day I will find some cyber-paleontologist who will know how to retrieve data from its methuselahian hard-drive. (did they even have hard drives back in the day? It was probably all encrypted onto a tablet of granite.)

Of course, the actual likelihood that I will grows more unlikely from year to year -- from day to day! -- especially since I'm too lazy to actually LOOK and a couple of very coolly professional computer techs burst out laughing in my face upon mention. But in the meantime, it's a bit like having my own Schrodinger's Sue. Is it recoverable? Is it not? As long as I keep being so half-assed about finding out, there's still a chance it is.

I suspect the question I should be asking is "should it be recovered?"

And since Mom's giving me a lift to the garbage dump and some help maneuvering his corpse down the stairs, I guess this is a HAHAHAno hint from destiny.

Hasta la vista, macPomme. Hasta la vista.