Anyhow, this desk is a pretty sweet model. The only thing I really had problem with was the cabinet door screws, which just refused to go in for quite some time. I've finally got it sorted now, and calloo-callay, the door even closes on its own. Don't ask me how I finagled that. I will recommend the "Bestar (we're Canadian!)" brand to anyone looking for cheap office furniture. And by cheap I mean inexpensive or cost-effective, you cynical bastards.
I drove in snow for the first time, and let me tell you: It would be fun if there were no other cars to slide into. I woke up extra early to drive to work and I made it with about 45 minutes to spare. So I hit the virgin snow at two seperate mall parking lots and went slip-sliding away. It was nice to see how well my car responded to me putting it through the paces before 9AM. I wish I was that reliable and responsive at that hour.
I've actually had people appreciate my intelligence lately, rather than bristling at it. This could mean I am dealing with more mature people as a whole. It could mean I'm gradually learning how to be smart-but-not-a-smart-ass. I doubt the latter.
I started watching "The Young Ones", which apparently everyone knew about but was quite complacent being total bastards and not telling me until after I'd seen it and then going, "Oh, you've never heard of the Young Ones? Under what rock did you manage that?" Anyway, in like the second ep I watched, Vyvyan was wearing a Rush shirt, and that just made my heart sing. If only the show were a bit... funnier? More interesting maybe.
I am in the mood for long rock. I listened to the first three Marillion albums today (side one of Misplaced Childhood twice!) and then BOTH sides of Inna-Gadda-da-Vida. I stole a carpet-sample-type-floormat from the library sale last month, and it's currently installed under my desk keeping my bare tootsies off the cold hardwood and out of my sweaty flip-flops. It's pure comfort! Even when I get back to listening to Motorhead, Deep Purple, T-Rex, and the James Gang.
I am thinking of throwing most everything else away. Boxes of stuff, memories all, will have to go some day. Maybe it will free me up to lose them all. It will probably be better, at any rate, if I part with them voluntarily. You see, I don't take pictures. I don't need to, with a largely photographic memory. Sounds and scents can stir vivid visual memories, but something that is easier to preserve is touch. I have artifacts left from bygone days, and like a clairvoyant, I can instantly immerse myself in the moment embedded in the object simply by picking it up. And I'm like a capacitor for memories, as I found out at my reunion. Being suddenly surrounded by five years' worth of memories (crammed into four years of education, thanks to our extended calendar and hours!), I was threatened with an almost explosive discharge (oh, yuck, I can hear you thinking it) of memories. Manic, hyperactive, lacking self-control; I was not myself. I was an animated medium for memories; stories, quotes, and nostalgic reverie that was oftentimes not even my own. I know you don't have to go anywhere to move on, and the idea of picking up and leaving town is a romantic fallacy if you're not prepared to make some actual change to yourself and your life, but I wonder if tossing all my junk will free me from myself any more than buying a new desk and optimizing my workspace does. I like being myself, but I'd like to be myself successful.
I want a spartan lifestyle.
You just turn your pretty head and walk away.