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One of the mysterious and only slightly translucent ice-cream tubs of random stuff that had been stuffed under the sink in the bathroom proved to contain essentials such as

  • my watch
  • my Circle ring, given to me at the same time as the star I wear 24/7
  • the toothpaste I was using until I packed it
  • a spare head for my toothbrush
  • my favorite eyeshadow
  • shower curtain rings
  • glasses screwdriver
  • pencil sharpener
  • watch that makes my wrist break out in allergy-nast
  • marker
  • hex wrenches
  • ballpoint pen
  • clear ink uniball fusion pen (black)
  • antibiotic cream
  • the other pc card slot placeholder for Tigereye (I should mail that to V in an amusingly labeled package)

This has led, through the sort of weirdly complex mental steps that comprise my life, to me putting random things away (in no particular order, with a lot of weird stops in between that lead to things like tampons sitting on the stove in the kitchen) in random order, listening to happy loud music and sipping cheap bubbly orange wine from a navy blue mug that proclaims my astrological orientation in glittery golden glaze. If it had a lid, I'd leave it at work for coffee.

I feel very teenage right now. I've been writing on my hands -- the current inscription features "I love", followed by Darkside's full name, and a lot of hearts. If I had my array of high-lighters with me, it would be colored in too.

I have to be a grown-up at work most of the time, and I have to be generally responsible as far as household and emotional stuff go, but it's really starting to hit home that I can do whatever I want as long as I meet all of my responsibilities. That feeling is more intoxicating than the wine.

General fandom reminder: Harry Potter is not a reliable narrator. Ever. Well, he can be relied upon to report things as he sees them, and to share the conclusions that he comes to, but there is absolutely no reason that he comes to conclusions that reflect c'thia. Dumbledore speaks in parables and around corners.
Gone away, gone ahead,
Echoes roll unanswered.
Empty, open, dusty, dead.
Why have all the Weyrfolk fled?

Where have dragons gone together
Leaving weyrs to wind and weather,
Setting herdbeasts free of tether;
Gone, our safeguards, gone, but whither?

Have they flown to some new weyr
Where cruel Threads some others fear?
Are they worlds away from here?
Why, oh why the empty weyr?

-- "The Question Song", Anne McCaffrey
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