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I got off my ass and wrote 1,500 words of my account of my grand adventure. It's amazing what happens when you're not hypnotized by Youtube and its video game walkthroughs. If I can keep up this pace, the Atlanta section should be finished and posted by the end of the week. The second part will be the train and the first day in NYC, and the third will be Rammstein. The fourth section will be my Times Square adventure. If I'm feeling masochistic, part five will detail the hotel checkout follies and the twenty-two-hour no-peeing, no-eating-or-drinking hellride home, where I spent ten minutes having sobbing, snot-choked hysterics in the KFC parking lot because my brain simply refused to function at any other level until I had a proper meal and some unbroken sleep. Ah, the joys of overdrawing your spoon account.
We're still snowbound and might be until the weekend, so we've watched a great deal of TV and eaten a great deal of soup and frozen food. I am beginning to hate ESPN because it's all Roomie wants to watch, and he gets his bitchface on if I dare change the channel. Never mind that he has access to the downstairs television. If he uses that one, then he can't surf the Internet and chat with his friends at the same time. I'm sure he would tell me that I'm free to go downstairs to watch TV, never mind that he would have to carry me downstairs, and that being downstairs would prohibit me from doing anything else, including using the toilet or eating, until he felt like carrying me back into the house proper. No writing, no Internet. He's the only one allowed to multitask, apparently.
We haven't started giving each other the stinkeye yet, but one more day of TV-hogging and put-upon huffing when I ask for food or hot chocolate, and I make no guarantees.
We're still snowbound and might be until the weekend, so we've watched a great deal of TV and eaten a great deal of soup and frozen food. I am beginning to hate ESPN because it's all Roomie wants to watch, and he gets his bitchface on if I dare change the channel. Never mind that he has access to the downstairs television. If he uses that one, then he can't surf the Internet and chat with his friends at the same time. I'm sure he would tell me that I'm free to go downstairs to watch TV, never mind that he would have to carry me downstairs, and that being downstairs would prohibit me from doing anything else, including using the toilet or eating, until he felt like carrying me back into the house proper. No writing, no Internet. He's the only one allowed to multitask, apparently.
We haven't started giving each other the stinkeye yet, but one more day of TV-hogging and put-upon huffing when I ask for food or hot chocolate, and I make no guarantees.
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