loss of the West.
Monica keystricken has already moved into my old room. She's built a huge, beautiful desk out of my cast-off end tables and lamp and a bunch of old doors and drawers she found at the ReBuilding Center, and she's got this amazing mirror that makes you look six inches taller than you are and she's got a pile of books about robotics and, dammit, I'm really jealous of people who get to do things like live in Happy House and hang out at the ReBuilding Center and go to Last Thursday tomorrow night if they want to because they don't have to catch the 8:02 redeye to Indianapolis.
On the other hand, it's been the three best years of my life and even so I've somehow still managed to save a lot of the best stuff for the last seven days, like, say, having a bunch of Australian OSCON speakers come over to my house to play Rock Band, or winning a spelling bee with the word "archaeopteryx" and receiving a Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets™ Spells and Potions Activity Kit and a totally sweet sign, or, oh, I don't know, going to Oaks Park last night and calling Alex oniugnip in the middle of the night, his time -- hell, the middle of the night my time -- to tell him that I am slouched in the stale-popcorn-and-video-games-smelling corner of a seedy-looking skating rink (as if there were any other kind) and my feet are strapped into heavy rented skates and I'm entirely drenched in sweat and my legs ache a lot but I've figured out how to start moving from a dead stop just by moving my dantian back and forth, and really, roller skating is just a special case of tai chi, and he says "I love you. So much." And I really am the luckiest person in the world, to have the kind of life where songs just start to write themselves when I'm not paying attention.