And so, still no Internet access at home. Stupid Comcast fucked everything up yesterday and despite Andreas taking the morning off to be there for the installation, they made a scheduling error and decided they couldn’t come until later. This means no web access at home until this weekend, but on the plus side: free installation, which is cool. And honestly, I have so much sorting and unpacking and organizing to do that it’s probably for the best that I don’t have my digital opium to distract and sedate me.

Last night while putting away books, I unpacked my journal bookshelf. It holds my paper journals from the last 12 years or so, and as usual I couldn’t help but crack one open. I read an entry from May 1997 which cracked me up. It included a discussion of how my then boyfriend (now dead junkie ex-boyfriend) was trying to convince me to try DMT. “He says that for a few minutes you lose all sense of time and are ‘lost in eternity with your true self.’ Jeez, what would your true self do stuck in eternity with only itself to keep you company? Supposedly it’s pretty life-changing. But hasn’t my life changed enough already?” Ultimately, I decided it had because I never did try it.

I also flipped through the little book my parents put together upon my high school graduation. Everyone who came to my reception wrote a little blessing for me in it, and they’re all very telling. My mother wrote about how I should watch out for the temptations of vapid cosumeristic society. My grandmother wrote pleasantries right out of a yearbook, wishing me all the best, etc. When I got to the page from my father, I remembered to myself “Oh gawd, this note always used to make me cry, all through college. What a sap I was!” Then I reread his words, and naturally started blubbering all over again. He hits every sentimental note possible, including a sad segment about finding an abandoned kite of mine. Clearly, I’m still a sucker for my daddy’s nostalgic prose. Come to think of it, this recent poem of his almost made me cry, too.

Lots more unpacking and shuffling around the house still to do. I’m debating whether I should hang my old indian bedspread from 1995 on the wall in my office. Dude, it’s trippy! The rest of the house feels pretty grown-up, but my office with its My Little Ponies, dorm-colored walls and lack of furnature feels like I’m barely out of college. The bedspread would sort of fit in perfectly.

Oh and PS: my 30th birthday is less than two weeks away. If you’re itching to provide a prezzie, time’s a-wastin’!