Oh dear. . .

Charlie should not watch The Wedding Singer. No, really.

Substantial post re: therapy, name, angst, apartment, and coming out at work will come soon, as well as a poem in the inbox of whoknew44 . Promise. Today I walked two miles to see an apartment, hip-checked a stone planter on the way home and wiped out, got a slice of pizza and came home and hit the couch for twelve hours. And tomorrow morning I need to be responsible for children.

Ugh.

*grrrrrrrrrrrrrrr*

The fucking fire alarm went off at 3:30 this morning. GRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRR OWWIE OWWIE OWW.
The apartment I saw yesterday is too far away, so back to the drawing board on that. Meanwhile, I would like a clean house by the end of the day, and I have decided to start with the living room, so it'll get done.
Therapy has been good lately, but I don't really want to do anything anymore.
I came out to my manager, and that went well, so I'm going to start disclosing to colleagues next week.
I'm tired.

Motivation to get living room clean: entire Cowboy Bebop series on DVD. Hopefully the room will be done before I run out of episodes.

Post Secret France.