My sixth grade ex-boyfriend has realized at least part of a dream, and is on the staff of one of the local stations back home. I wonder if I'll see his face with that wonderful quirky smile on national TV at some point. Ginger got married. Everyone is growing up. I suppose I have a career or something.
I've been roommateless for over a year. I made a friend an offer of either crash space or something more long-term. (I don't say 'permanent' solely because where Darkside goes, there I aim to follow, for while I can be without him, I prefer to not do so ... and who knows, someday he may ask me a question that I already know my answer to.) We'll see how this plays out.
I went and gave plasma. I was admiring a nice arse in a pair of tight purple bike shorts, when the person attached to the arse turned partly around, and I saw a very familiar, very pink duffel bag! It was V! Buzzkiller as far as the arse-admiring was concerned, but we had a very squeeful moment, and wound up doing our donation a bed apart. We didn't talk over the fellow in between us too much.
I'm engaged in cleaning up the apartment right now, because it will definitely need to be cleaned should I acquire a roommate, and I've been meaning to clean it more thoroughly anyway. The Flylady method is all well and good, and I plan to employ it throughout the evening, in a series of ten-to-fifteen-minute bursts of active cleaning, followed by more happy fun computer time. But tonight and tomorrow and maybe Wednesday are days for heroic cleaning, versus the maintenance stuff that Flylady seems to be about. It's a small studio apartment, and as V said, I have a house's worth of stuff carefully packed in.