Almost a solid month has passed since I got back from KY. I've spent it mostly by going on crazy destashing sprees of purging anything that isn't bolted down from my room and closet. I feel like Motley Crue in a hotel room circa 1982. Despite my concern over this manic state, I did accomplish two important goals: there's an actual hamper in the closet and an empty suitcase available, in case I ever need to go somewhere. Moral of the story, dream big, people.
The rest of the time has been spent reading and cultivating a refined sense of ennui. Normally I'm fairly resilient, but this summer has floored me psychologically. Sometimes I try to wriggle free, but like a straitjacket or the Snuggie from hell, my depression envelops me and and struggle is useless. Better just sit here and take it. Currently self-medicating with cookies and Sylvia Plath -- surely this will end well.
I try to leave the house as often as possible to stave off the impending Mrs. Rochester-style decline that will be my undoing. But getting out of my house is no easy task. My parents are extremely paranoid, and are convinced that every outing spells doom, even for themselves. I went to the mall today after sitting through a ten minute lecture on being careful and aware because someone had once been robbed in the parking lot. I dealt with this warning by parking in the Bass Pro lot. What fool would mug someone in the vicinity of at least fifty men with knives and/or guns? Also, it was broad daylight on a Thursday morning. What can I say -- fearless.
Oh, well. Every day can't be the best day. Maybe one of them will be, though.
Well dayum, why couldn't I have lived here? Louisville is a magical city of riverboats, huge-ass Victorian houses, and endless bridges over relatively untroubled waters.
We went here on Tuesday, and did the usual BB 'n ALB circuit: cemeteries, letterboxing, tea, and architecture creeping. There are precious few people that share these interests, so I'm grateful for a friend who doesn't mind off-roading in the name of the fascinating and bizarre. Our destination today was Cave Hill Cemetery, a Victorian cemetery and arboretum built by those who truly understood how to memorialize the dead in style. Huge mausoleums, impressive sculptures, memorable names to add to my perpetual list ("Freelove" and the Strother twins, "Owen Gray" and "Gray Owen"): this place has it all.
Oh, and this guy who seems to be famous hereabouts:
For house and architecture creeping, there are the beautiful "Old Louisville" neighborhoods which managed to survive the wrecking ball as well as the general shocking decay of other similar areas (I'm looking at you, Cincinnati). Blocks and blocks of gorgeous Victorian monstrosities along St. James Court (in various states of upkeep and/or division into apartments): who would I have to kill to live here?
And then the tea. Why this idea hasn't made its way to Nashville yet, I'll never know.
You know those East Nash hipsters would be all over tea soda in a Mason jar.
After this adventure, BB helped me pack and flee the scene of this summer's crime(s). We spent a couple days in Nash, including a full thrifting tour (plus "the bins" outlet -- think Goodwill meets Thunderdome: "Two men enter, one man leaves!"), breakfast at Noshville, Marathon Village, and assorted other stops that make this such a great place. But, alas, she had to return to the homeland, where gainful employment and an exciting future await. Fare thee well, faithful friend. May the color of the day be ever in your favor.
Back home in Nash, killing time til diving back into the shit show that is school/work. This week has been consumed by a massive wardrobe/book/junk cull that has been years in the making. "What is a closet, really, but a catalogue of the different personas we have auditioned and discarded?" (Tim Gunn, who's looking more like a guru every minute). I'm not an inherent hoarder, but I do unnecessarily collect certain things for various unhealthy psychological reasons I have come to recognize. But why hold on to things that are no longer appropriate or that no longer make me happy? Surely absence is better than hoarding unhappiness. Is it because I think nothing better will come along? But it will, because I deserve it and will work to find it. Donate ALL the things and start afresh and unafraid. "When half-gods go, the gods arrive."
Obviously this is a bigger issue than hanging onto middle school jeans (not that I did that...), but you get the idea. Better an empty closet or heart than one that is full to the brim with things that bring you down. Hurry up and clean it out, because better things are on their way!
All good things must come to an end, and, thankfully, so too must all hellish things. I finished my internship with a shred of sanity intact and fled the scene of that crime like R. Kelly had just pulled his beretta. I'm sure I learned something worthwhile, but the main takeaways were: 1) Kentucky taxes take 20% of your check, and 2) stay away from our northern neighbors. Trailer Park Boys was a lie. These peeps be cray.
Now BB is visiting from the homeland and we're trolling the Midwest in search of bourbon and mayhem. Double points if these elements are combined. The trip thus far:
Saturday: Welcome to the 5th smallest state capital! There is nothing here. Downtown strolling and a quick trip to my former place of work to witness the horror of the animatronic coal miner in the exhibit. Unexpected bonus: terrifying animatronic guy sharpening knives! Evening ghost tour of a bourbon distillery. Unfortunate experience with 125-proof moonshine. I could tell BB had taken a drink because she was literally crying.
Sunday: Cincinnati. Can someone please explain why there's been no new construction in the Midwest since 1885? Anyway. Taft housing, river walking, Graeter's eating (disappointment, these dudes need a Braum's), and cemetery letterboxing. I got a nice neck sunburn in preparation for my return to the South.
Monday: Somehow we are still in this town. Candy factory touring (again with the bourbon balls -- even the chocolate is liquored up here), more cemetery creeping, Civil War fort climbing, and generally driving around looking at whatever this backwater has to offer. Sadly, that ended up being a fish hatchery.
Tuesday: on to Louisville! Cemeteries, Victorian district, and an intriguing establishment known only as "Hillbilly Tea." Eventually I'll have to head home, but ain't nothing good waiting there so I'm delaying it as long as possible. More adventures to come...
Well, just two more weeks until you're hearing me complain about living at home again! There really is no middle ground: I'm either unhappy alone or I'm unhappy with people. At least one unhappiness is free and includes a dishwasher. Dayum, I am spoiled.
Anyhow, what a weird effing week. Old Man Lunch Club are now my biggest fans (genteel Southern manners never fail to charm), boss who probably still thinks I'm incompetent wants me to write a conference paper on our collection (cue this face), and a shady man from the past is blowing up my inbox.
Let's cut right to the chase. It's ALC, whom you may remember from several depressing posts from about two years ago. We became good friends (?) the last semester of school and into the summer, and I was pretty sure he was the chainmail-crafting, bad-movie-pirating man of my dreams. We talked and texted every day, and had weekly dinner and movie dates. Yet no decisive action ever took place. When I finally said something (albeit in the most redonk and creepy way possible), he responded that he was not interested. Oh. Um, okay. He wasn't mean or weird about it (which he certainly could've been -- I basically broke into his car at 1 a.m.). But how confusing. I was less heartbroken than just completely befuddled. I just... if it walks like a duck, swims like a duck, and cooks me dinner at its apartment, it should be a damn duck. If this kind of attention is indicative of just friendship, how are we ever supposed to know when they are interested? Men are ridiculous, end of story. It's either this or those ones who claim their inclinations were so obvious that we must be blind to not understand. Nope, you're full of shit. Go sit down.
Anyway, I went off to New York, and ALC went off to grad school in a foreign country that fall. We continued to talk, until one day, with no warning, he disappeared from the almighty Facebook. I'm not suggesting that FB should be anyone's primary mode of communication, but when you're in another country, don't have a phone, and I don't have your email address, it's pretty much the only outlet left. I was puzzled and frankly disappointed. I mean, feel free to cut the ties of FB whenever, but don't leave me with no way to contact you if we are, in fact, friends. It was weird, but eventually I just decided he was cutting home ties generally and becoming immersed in his new life. Nothing I could do about it. A year passes, no news. We all figure he's dead, in jail, or in earnest pursuit of local girls (/boys? Jury's still out.).
Cut to last week, when out of nowhere, I get a notice on LinkedIn from ALC. Whaaaaaaaaat? Throwing caution to the wind, I send him a message asking where the hell he's been. And now we're emailing every day like two years have not passed. We're still on the same topics, too: crappy movies, bad drink recipes, and the masterful intricacy of R. Kelly lyrics. Even though I know he's not interested in me, it's nice to have someone like me to talk to again. He's not from around here, so it's doubtful I'll ever see him again. Still, you need all the friends you can get, amirite?
Things both better and worse here. Better because
things are going more smoothly at work now that I think I know what I’m doing
(although still batshit terrified of boss’s judgment – am writing this while
avoiding interacting with her by pretending to still be on yesterday’s
project), and because an end is finally in sight (less than three weeks!)
Better because I got to write a little bit for work, thus re-establishing my sense that there is at least
one thing I know how to do alright. Better because I befriended Old Man Lunch Club and they don't think I'm a fool. Better because I finally got internet at
home! Much rejoicing! Slight amelioration of isolation and ennui!!!
I can’t believe it took over a month to get internet. Well, yes, I can. The
thing was, I never saw my landlady, despite the fact that she lives upstairs. I
often heard her, though (1:30 a.m. shower in the bathroom directly above my
bed, furniture assembly complete with power tools at 5:30 a.m., etc.). And the
one time I did see her, she promised to get back to me with the wifi password,
but never did. So did I track her down and assert my rights as a paying tenant
to internet service? That hardly sounds like me, does it? No. Did I wait til
she and her family were out of the house on July 4th, then sneak upstairs, search
in vain for a router, and then finally hack a computer to find the password?
You betcha.
It was definitely a “look at your life, look at your choices” kind of moment. I
realize that the simpler and not crazy thing would’ve just been to find her and
ask, but I know that would’ve been awkward for me and I already know I’m crazy,
so might as well run with it. I’m aware I make things much harder than they
have to be because I’m weird like that, but what can I do? I always think of
Yul Brynner’s character in the old Anastasia when he says something to the
effect of, “What is difficult for most men is simple to me. What is simple for
most men to do is impossible for me.”
It’s not all sunshine and Youtube, though. A dark cloud of depression hovers
overhead due to the recent exodus of QB to the west, never to return. Well,
maybe to return at selected holidays, and at this point my plan is to leave the
car idling in the auditorium parking lot on graduation day so I can speed out
to NM immediately following the ceremony, but regardless I won’t see her for
quite awhile, and never every day like we were used to doing (til I move in to
her garden shed, anyway). Our relationship was magic in a way that only the
sudden recognition of a kindred spirit can enable, and her devotion to
providing me with snark, chocolate, and motivation is largely what got me
through this past year. She listened to me, helped me, and tried to straighten
me out as best she could. Most importantly, she gave me what I always wanted
but never believed I deserved: the complete and undivided attention of another
person. I don’t know how I’ll get along without her. Fare thee well, noble
BFFL. I am eternally grateful. I’ll see you on the other side (of the
country).
“Your life is such an epic saga of things that are slightly horrible, punctuated by the truly awful."
Wise words from the sage QB, who is like a sassy Ann Landers who cuts through the BS and brings me treats. The last part is based on our theory that my general lack of heft is causing my brain to feed off of itself, similar to the process experienced by the malnourished and purposefully protein-deprived cult victims, and that we can remedy this with constant application of fattening substances (“You want some cherries for your ice cream? Whipped cream? Crushed Pop-tart?”). I’m not sure about the science behind this, but if it gives me an excuse for my insanity and allows me to do things like put two kinds of ice cream in one bowl and frost a red velvet Pop-tart with Nutella, I’m certainly not arguing. Next it’ll be intravenous whiskey, which, although the side effects of tears and sudden and startling life clarity can be rough, has continually brought me through to a better state of health.
Anyway. I set out today to write a blog that for once doesn’t read like an extended suicide note. Let’s see how that goes.
We may or may not be scripting a cat version (R. Kitty’s “Trapped in the Cabinet”) as we speak. And by we, I mean our two girl crew of “Graham Cracka” and “Platinum Prawn.” Add that to the rap about museum storage I’m secretly drafting every day I’m here (“I’m the original Hollinger gangsta/ bitch, don’t make me get my swatches out!”) and you can how my career is about to really take off.
Same old situation at work. I’ve been parlaying the Southern girl’s innate ability to charm the elderly into scoring free meals from old lady volunteers and life advice from editors in another department (the one I’d like to be in but that doesn’t have interns, natch). It makes things easier now, and who can say how it might pay off in the future (i.e., remembering me for a job, or in their will).
EF found out she will be birthing a boy. Of course everything I have made for it is purple. So help me, I will turn him into a little Prince or Freddie Mercury if it kills me.
It's the Fourth tomorrow. I have that day off, but not Friday, which means there's no sense in going home. I have no plans and no companions. I hope I can find some fireworks. I really hope I can find some Sonic.
Meanwhile, here's this in case your life was missing something:
“If this is the dynamic you’re used to, no wonder you can’t interact with people in a normal, healthy way.”
QB’s response to this week’s crisis (my family putting down our 15 year old dog and informing me via email) is pretty spot on. I’m way over my tears budget for this year, so I’m not even going to write about the emotional agony of losing a four-legged friend. Almost everyone goes through it eventually, but this has happened to me three times in the past 4 years and there’s not much I haven’t already said.
Anyway, this response got me thinking (almost always a dangerous thing). But it’s true. Normal interactions elude me even when I’m pretending really hard to be normal myself. It’s not really flattering to think that your own personality is “wrong” and getting in the way of your own life, but for a long time it has been.
I’m shy, secretive, defensive, self-destructive, easily intimidated, stubborn, and proud to a fault. And it’s ruining my life, which honestly has never needed my help being shitty, anyway.
Latest example: I’m terrified of my boss. I have no idea what she wants from me, am convinced she thinks I’m an idiot, get very flustered in front of her, and avoid contact or asking for help because of these reasons. I will go to any lengths to get by her. Which is ludicrous: ostensibly she is here to teach me (and provide a recommendation, should the need arise). But I can’t get over it. Today is my mid-internship evaluation and I’m half-convinced I will either be sent home in shame or reprimanded for all these things I do that I know are stupid and wrong (even as I continue to do them), but cannot seem to help.
Did I used to be better, or was the universe just asking less of me?
Pedaling back to TN tonight as fast as Space Ghost will carry me to drown my anxieties and depression in a sea of cupcakes and trashy tv.
Third week down. If it's not opening boxes to uncover a circa 1920s mouse nest, it's shooting things with a laser x-ray to determine their arsenic content. Well, watching someone else shoot the laser while shielding my eyes. Ain't no way they'd trust me with that.
Messed up in several different capacities this week, but it's looking like I can get by with feigning enthusiasm about things like relative humidity and the acidity of tissue paper and taking up all the conversation time with those issues. Just keep talking. At one point, my boss said, "Do they offer counseling at your school?"
ALB: *nervous, bitter laughter*
Boss: "I mean career counseling."
ALB: *embarrassed silence*
So there's that.Salvaging my sanity with a weekend at QB's full of chicken and chocolate.I had a frightening moment of self-awareness when I found myself wearing a dress and heels to Wal-mart, though in my defense, I thought we were going to Cracker Barrel later (still does not excuse it). Also RuPaul's Drag Race, which, if you haven't seen it, is one of the funniest damn things on the planet. Alyssa: "I call it 'Alyssa's Secret'." RuPaul: "And what is Alyssa's secret?"Alyssa: "Uh... I'm a man."
For further info, this here:
I cannot imagine the horrors to come at work next week, because I'm too busy imagining the horrors to come if I don't leave soon. If the 4 or 5 hour drive isn't traumatic enough, I also am unable to identify the house in the dark, so I end up trolling along this street for half an hour while exhausted and depressed and looking like a criminal.
Fit in so good the hope is that you cannot see me later
You don't know me, I am an introvert, an excavator
I'm ducking out for now, a face in dodgy elevators
Creep up and suddenly I found myself an innovator
I can say I hope it will be worth what I give up
If I can stand up mean for the things that I believe
Week two down, six to go. Anxiety levels continue to fluctuate, based on how many things I manage to mess up at work and how many hours have passed since I've heard the reassuring voice of a friend telling me I will neither die alone in museum storage nor in my current basement dwelling.
If this is my first experience in a real world job scenario, I can only say that it has thrown things into horrifying perspective. I feel like my brain speaks a different language than everyone else (or maybe I just can't process information that is not snark), and my ever more invasive social phobia ensures that I'm too busy trying to escape imaginary judgment to really keep track of where I put those files/box/priceless museum object. What the hell am I doing here? How am I supposed to supervise the photography intern, who got here two weeks before me and is a legit photographer to boot? Why did I ever think it was a good idea to pursue a field that is famous for its high competition and laughable wages? I've had a terrifying glimpse into my future, and it bears a depressing resemblance to my present.
The only good story from this week is from when the other intern and I were helping with an installation in the main exhibit hall. My unnamed-for-legal-reasons place of employment functions as the state museum, so the main attraction is an exhibit about the state's history from prehistory to today. The prehistory bit naturally has panels and artifacts dealing with Native Americans, but for some reason they also saw a need for some weird mannequins and animals that I sincerely hope were never alive. The animals are our focus here, because they move. Yes. Animatronic animals in an exhibit about the state's inhabitants after the Ice Age. Is this really necessary? Debatable. Is it necessary that they also be motion sensitive, so they only spring to life when you walk by? I think not! Even better, most of them are hidden so you just get a glimpse from your periph. This was clearly set up with the express intent of scaring people.
Anyway, other intern girl and I were helping set up some cases in the hall. We were walking through the exhibit on our way to set up and label guns/hats/beaver pelts/whatever the hell else they wanted to put in there when we passed the Native American section. Intern girl sees the hidden raccoon on the wall move (and to be fair, he does seem to be waving a bone, which is objectively frightening) and does a legit Oscar-worthy scream of horror. I had been trying really hard all week to be friendly and make an alliance with her, but when this happens I abandon all pretenses of politeness and laugh so hard I was afraid of wetting myself.
ALB: Are *laugh* you *snort* okay? *wiping away tears*
IG: Yeah. I have a fear of like wax figures. This is awful.
ALB: Well, these aren't wax, or people. Are you afraid of taxidermy, too? Or just things that move?
IG: *no reply, as she has seen the dog in the corner tilt its head and has succumbed to wide-eyed shock*
It was just too much for her. She closed her eyes, stuck out her arm, and made me lead her through the rest of the exhibit like a cartoon blind man til we got passed everything that moved. What. The. What.
I came home this weekend to postpone the suicide by puzzle piece that will inevitably claim me up north before the summer's up. I grabbed the kitchen trash bag as I left, intending to ditch it when I stopped at the gas station. Events overcame me, as they so often do, and I ended up driving four hours with a Wal-mart bag full of loose spaghetti in the backseat. Not to mention the half loaf of French bread, which I purchased last week just in case I suddenly became eight people who were capable of demolishing such a hefty piece of baked goods before the mold set in.
My life is like this, and I don't know how much longer I can handle it.
Everybody I met seemed to be a rank stranger No mother nor dad, not a friend did I see They knew not my name and I knew not their faces I found they were all rank strangers to me
One week of internship down, seven to go. So far it's strange people, strange town, and basement living part deux. Someone remind me again why I do these things. It's not as if you can cure loneliness and depression with immersion therapy. The first few days were filled with pokerfacing at work and tears and Santogold after hours, but things seem to have stabilized somewhat. I started on a giant 3D puzzle to help ward off ennui but the sight of all my bowls now filled with hundreds of foam puzzle pieces seemed like an apt metaphor for my life and may induce further depression. We'll see. Et tu, Rothenburg?
Work is about as exciting as one can expect from a collections management position ("How can I best describe this box of moldy blankets? Does the difference between 'twill' and 'plain weave' really matter so much when I'm worried about finding mummified mice in the folds?"). This I can deal with, if only for the marginal pay and learning of Photoshop and PastPerfect wizardry. But the people. The people. Check your snark at the door because this is a humor and color-free zone. This became immediately apparent before I could embarrass myself or offend anyone, TG, but it is strange and numbing to have to consciously deaden your personality forty hours a week. Is this normal? Have I been spoiled by my last job, which was almost completely filled with alternate versions of myself whom I could speak with about mellification, Macklemore, and our mutual dream of suing bosses for harassment with no fear of judgment and an assurance of immediate understanding? Seems so.
Let's just sum up the week with a few key points:
On the drive up, I passed a giant SUV with tinted windows and a "Skinhead Army" bumper sticker. This is a step below even the usual CSA crap. I have no words, other than... where does one even purchase Nazi car decals?
The people at work never laugh. At anything. Except maybe me, behind my back. See next point.
I stepped in a termite trap the first day and got seriously stuck. There was a witness. After wrenching it off, I figured just walking it off down the hall would decrease the stickiness. Oh no. It was like I'd just crawled out of a bog, or suddenly developed elephantitis of the right foot. Walking it off was not an option. Unfortunately, neither was washing it off since the glue seemed to be waterproof. Finally gave up and plastered over the sticky spot with some paper towel. Went about day feeling like a fool.
The entire floor in museum storage where I work is made of a loose metal grill situation you can see completely through to the floor some twenty feet below. I'm not afraid of heights, but I am afraid of situations where I am high up and can see down to just how little I am supported (see also: deep water). Bonus: anyone walking below can see up my dress.
Speaking of dresses (which I brought almost exclusively for work clothes, 'cause ain't nobody got time to be matching separates), all of mine seem to be made for an entirely different grade of woman and thus gap open at the top and show everyone my underwear. To remedy this, I put my college degree to work and came up with the extremely smart and mature solution of taping my dresses closed. Texted EF about the sitch. She replied with, "No judgment -- I've used staples before." Oh my God we are all pretending here.
My boss is a straight-laced Canadian from PEI with red hair. I made an Anne of Green Gables joke. No one laughed.
Had to come home this weekend to retrieve Social Security card, with the secondary goal of salvaging what's left of my sanity. This last one was pretty much a disappointment, as the constant bickering about money, calories, and moving furniture that seems to be the soundtrack of life in this house is driving me closer to the edge. It's a four hour drive plus a time change, so I'll have to leave in a few hours to get home in time to get some sleep. Is this all there is to life? It's like that lost week I had in April, though as QB pointed out, now I have neither cats, cable, nor whiskey. Sometimes rock bottom has a trapdoor.
One thing I've learned to appreciate about my mom is that she often responds to bad news the same way I do, with incredulity and righteous indignation: "Your dad had lung cancer? That's the dumbest thing I've ever heard!" And she's right, it is. It's hard to imagine a healthier person than my dad, or a more no-nonsense example of dealing with illness. Upon hearing that further monitoring and surgery might be necessary after the removal of the tumor, in true dad fashion he pronounced "Ain't nobody got time for that -- take it all out!" Thus he is now the proud owner of a solitary lung.
That should have been the end of it right there. But like love, that shit spreads around. Now his thyroid is looking sketchy and might come out as well. The whole thing is scary as hell, and yet I find myself strangely under-reacting in a way that probably makes me look harsh and uncaring to anyone watching. I'm not really, but I cannot conceive of a universe where my dad cannot conquer anything and everything in his path, so naturally I assume that this will all turn out okay. I'm not particularly optimistic usually, but in this case, I don't even have to try. It's my dad. He's Superman.
Right?
I've been house-sitting and minding two cats for the past week, which really means alternating periods of writing productivity with periods of watching "Mrs. Doubtfire" and crying into a pint of Ben and Jerry's. The events of this semester have left me so drained and emotional that I'm liable to burst into tears at any moment (and do), and the solitude of this week has not helped much. I should've gotten a lot done, but instead I've just had too much time to think, too much time to play it all over in my head, too much time to wonder where it's going. I briefly consoled myself with the thought that the loneliness and stress will soon be past, but then I took a good hard look at myself eating dinner alone while shooing a cat off my book and realized that this is going to be the rest of my life. Work, silence, depression, and so much time left to go.
Well, that was a long and eventful hiatus. Someone asked me recently why the blog stopped after I got back from South Dakota, and I replied that that was the last interesting thing that had happened to me. This is not, in the strictest sense, true: there have been ten kinds of shit going down since then. This has been simultaneously the best and worst year of my life. Yea verily it is the spring of hope and the winter of despair, and yet the more things change, the more they stay the same.
In a word (well, two): grad school. The Master's giveth and the Master's taketh away. Trying to hit it and quit it before the money runs out means I have a hefty schedule of speed reading and BSing to deal with if there's to be any hope in my future of a home with four walls and no wheels.
In another word: work. What IS this job I have? Every day is a big box of crazy with the lurking possibility of sexual harassment thrown in for good measure. Luckily, there are the Girls, the Maven, and my "biffle" to keep me from gouging my eyes out with a microspatula. Recently we've taken our righteous indignation public via Tumblr, which if you're reading this, you probably already know how to find.
In the last word: home. Am still too old and weird to be here. And lately it's been crazier than ever. Turns out our legendary Appalachian immunity, while rendering us impervious to poison ivy, Lyme disease, and Mountain Dew overdosing, does not protect us against the ravages of time. People here are getting old and sick and I'm processing it in a less than ideal way.
In summation, it's been a pretty mixed bag. There have been times of elation, joy, and hope, and periods of absolute black soul-sucking depression, sometimes within hours of each other. I'm trying to focus on more immediate things because I'm not convinced there is anything at the end of this tunnel, and to appreciate things for what they are instead of lamenting what they're not. Either way, I'll try to keep you posted.
