phosfate

Yesterday I spent an hour talking to a woman who is either clinically insane or living in a John Grisham novel (I realize those are not mutually exclusive - just because you hear voices and claim that no computer will work for you doesn't mean you're not at the heart of a criminal conspiracy). I couldn't help her much other than steer her away from the Crime Commission (it would be like going to the Liquor Licensing Board to report a drunk at the bus stop) and listen, but at least it was interesting and made her feel a little better for a little while. Anyway, if I'm found murdered in the next week, tell them about the whole murder conspiracy and they should check the lobby security footage. Unless they're in on it. They're probably all in on it, except for the lobby baristas. I would die for the baristas.

I seem to have inherited the curse from Mom where strangers talk to me. Mom's best story was when she and dad (I'm not sure which dad) went out to a nightclub, and the evening ended with the stripper sobbing in her arms. This was back when striptease was still wholesome nightclub fare, and there were still nightclubs.

I found five dollars on the bus. Using cash feels strange now, like I'm in the 70s.

I assembled a very small doll room box, which is supposed to fit together like a jigsaw but actually required a sweater-covered fist and then a rubber mallet. I don't own a rubber mallet, but my screwdrivers have silicon handles and I have a lot of pent-up rage, so that worked. Now to spend weeks going totally My Froggy Stuff on its ass. Hello, scrapbook paper from 2005!