Feeds:Twelfth Sunday after Penecost
I will never get over how weird a word 'twelfth' is.
The storage company won't have a truck available tomorrow, so I had to move things up a day. I may ask about moving them back instead, since Jerett offered to let me stay a few more days, but I'm not too keen on reassembling the bed; I may stick with plan a (that's the Latin a, not to be confused with Plan A, with the Greek alpha... on second thought, perhaps I should call it something else). Plan b is out of the picture, so I may resort to plan c: couch surfing. You know who you are.
And instead of packing what little I've unpacked last night, I transformed a few more pages of the archives; this may be as far back as I can go with the robots' help, barring building new ones essentially from scratch, as the format undergoes a complete change. I may choose to spend some time cleaning up the entries that have already been transformed, however, before moving further back.
But I'm pretty sure no one cares. I care. I have standards. I like to hear myself talk.
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