Saturday, January 1

[It was Colonel Mustard in the conservatory with the revolver]
This office chair is creaking like it's in pain. I'm trying to be quiet so Phil can sleep and make it to work by 6 a.m., but I'm only making it worse. I know I must drive him absolutely nuts. I'm not very inconspicuous when he's trying to sleep; I pile unnecessary crap up on every flat surface until it teeters and crashes and knocks over important things we don't need to lose; I carelessly toss the day's entire outfit either on the floor in front of my dresser or, if space permits, on top of the already teeming pile of clothes on top of the dresser. And I will let that shit sit there for a month until I run out of things to wear and frantically search in vain for a nice work shirt 10 minutes before I have to clock in, only to find everything I own wrinkled and damp. I know I'm hard to live with, and I don't know why I do it. I know better. It's like when I catch myself tearing the flesh around my cuticles. I know I should change my behavior so as not to bleed on everyone, but I just can't even begin to fathom the self-restraint it would take.

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Another day off tomorrow. I could get used to this. But it's already 2 a.m., so chances are I won't roll out of bed until noon or later. That's another area of my life that could use some revision.

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My dad hasn't slept for about 20 years, but last night he actually got some rest and my mom reports that he felt energized all day and didn't doze off a single time. The docs put him on a breathing machine that creates positive pressure on his mouth or nose to keep him breathing steadily through the night. It's supposed to clear up sleep apnea, which will in turn help clear up his narcolepsy. And maybe it will give him a new outlook on life, because as of late, his perspective has been pretty dismal and I worry about how he's feeling. I think he might benefit from seeing a psychiatrist, but he sort of believes that if you've got to talk about your problems, you need to talk about them to God and that should be enough.

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We had a pretty laid-back New Year's Eve. Several of the Kids met up at Nick's and drank beer. We played Cranium, and despite the stupid commercials, it's actually really fun, especially if you have four teams of two playing. Then we sat around and shot the shit (was shooting shit an actual social pastime in history?) for a while before pooping out early. Cox, Amber, Phil, and I agreed that going home early on New Year's because it just isn't that important to stay out and party is a definite sign that we've crossed over into true responsible adult territory. And that's sort of weird. But it's not like I've ever really partied anyway, and I've never missed being a party animal, so I'm perfectly content to sit around and play board games.

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I'm getting really bitchy lately about the bad punctuation I'm seeing everywhere. The signs and memos at work look like they're written by a dyslexic 7-year-old. Our receipt has the store's return policy written on the back and there's a glaring its/it's error that makes me cringe. On any given day, you can walk down the aisles and see 10 possessive apostraphe errors on random signs. How do these people keep businesses afloat when they think occasion is spelled 'ossacion'? Of course, there are larger issues in the world (though I can't think of any offhand...), but pet peeves are a fun blog topic. Aren't you having fun?

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Still no idea when we're moving, but we're excited. It's a chance at something new and substantial, though we're both scared since it took us so long to get comfortable in Mufreesboro. I'm not a very good mover, and Phil has moved so much that each additional move probably sucks exponentially for him. We went through some tough times right after coming to the Boro from Savannah and Saltillo. Living in those shitty, lonely dorms. Walking over and spending the weekend in Nick's Hall while Justin drove to Savannah to visit his crazy girlfriend Alisha. Playing Worms Armageddon for the first time (for my fellow punctuation Nazis, 'worms' should have a possessive apostraphe following the 's', but the official title lacks one, so I'll leave it out as long as I can express my sheer horror at doing so). Getting blizzowed and thinking I was sinking into the bed because the gravity got turned up in the room. It's surreal. But we made it through. And we're stronger for it. If only we can find a nice, safe place that's a little more like a house than an apartment. I want to start building a home that I can think of as more than just temporary. I've got weird mid-20s nesting urges going on, and I don't necessarily dislike them, which is kind of odd for me. When Rylee was born, I told my mom she was sweet, and she was like, "You think a newborn baby is sweet?!?" like I was some kind of baby-hating freak. I guess I've just been so vocal about my desire to take a track that doesn't involve immediate marriage and impregnation that they think any admission on my part that the wife/mother part of womanhood has its good points is hypocritical or something. Or maybe they're just thinking of how typical that is. I guess the idea of a home and family is all really romantic in nature, but it's a genuine eventual aspiration of mine. I think Phil and I could build a solid home, and that any kids we have will be over-loved and supported. I mean, isn't it sort of neat to think of creating an entirely new person to contribute to the world, and if you are a good parent and provide good genes and upbringing, that person could go on to do amazing things? It's the most hopeful and optimistic story out there.

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