So the end of the month approaches, and I need to evacuate my apartment. Which is a problem since I haven't dispensed of various unwieldy pieces of furniture.

The solution seems likely to be simply tossing everything into the nearby vacant lot in the dark still of the night. Or perhaps onto the sidewalk.

I feel like a fugitive.

I had been sitting on the dismembered carcass of an IKEA dining table chair, placed on top of a lone cinder block. My erstwhile "roommates" (read: my squatter friends) neglected to tell me that they would be putting away the green plastic patio chair that had served as my couch for the past few weeks. My stepladder proved to be unable to accomodate my (also rather) unwieldy buttocks, so, as they say, necessity is the mother of invention.

While I have been brainlessly content these past few weeks simply trying to sort out the various frayed and tattered loose ends in my life (it's really amazing how little I can get done in 24 hours) I sat on my makeshift chair pondering the frightening possiblity that I might sink back into depression once I run out of stupid, little aggravating things to do.

Cue rug being pulled from underneath me. But, luckily, I am, indeed, getting quite used to this sort of thing.

No, I will not explain that last paragraph. (Remember, to give name to the monster will cause it to take form…)

So. Other than the ten thousand various and sundry useless items that I must find some way to dispose of awaiting me back home, there is very little to do except watch the basketball game and kill a few more brain cells.

Nothing ever lasts, does it? Especially when it's not even real. But I guess I knew that already.