I'm tried and irritated. More irritated than tired. To-day has been spent moving all of my things into the hall or the garage or my car. The hall's littered with huge stacks of movies, CDs, bags, and books, and I still have a ton of all those things to move and, for the most part, I have no idea where I'm going to put them. This is all, of course, because of a paranoid fantasy that's taken hold of my grandmother, who now roams the house wearing a mask because she's afraid of some kind of mould. It's one of those days where I very much wish I lived in my own place, or at least with someone I got along with.
Thank the gods for my iPod--I spent a lot of time backing up files onto it, because who knows if I'm going to be able to put the computer back together properly. I wish I just had a quiet, soundproof, subterranean pod where I could work on my comics, watch movies, read, and no-one would pester me with their stupid, meaningless tasks. Or a space station. That'd be better, because then I could have windows if I wanted them.
Man, I can scarcely believe how much stuff I've to shift . . .
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