In which there’s a blog post! ABOUT NOTHING.

It’s late May. The air conditioner’s been in for a week. There was a thunderstorm earlier and the power flickered but didn’t go out, so, sadly, I had to keep working ’til the end of my shift. It was fairly slow and I didn’t get skilled for fucking inbound calls. Win!

It’s 1:22 in the morning and I’m sitting at my desk watching a BBC police procedural and scrolling social media like an idiot.

Need to book my Amma retreat, but keep not doing it. Probably will decide on DC (couldn’t get registered for the Toronto retreat with rooms, tried Travel Exchange but no dice) and buy a plane ticket tomorrow.

Dad was here last week and took us to a Twins game. Mariners won, which is fine with me as a native Washingtonian. It rained for most of the game, but was warm enough it wasn’t a bother.

Bob’s Java Hut, a coffee shop a block away, has a fantastic thing called a Carburetor. It’s cold press with half and half and sweetened condensed milk and it’s brilliant. If I bring a jar, they fill it to the top. Magic.

I still need to see a dentist. OMFG do I ever. My mouth is a fucking crime scene.

Still rockin’ out regularly to my ancient iPod, dug up out of a drawer recently and which still holds a moderately decent charge. Backed it up to my computer finally, but haven’t put anything new on it. It’s so old there’s a playlist called “Pop Rocks” that features nothing under ten years old.

There’s no produce in my fridge. We need to go shopping. All I have is onions and wilted celery, maybe some carrots. How did people used to survive without year-round tomatoes?

Bought some clothes online and they arrived today! A new hippie skirt (my old ones both died recently) with a massive 25-yard spin; expensive as skirts go, but worth it. New sports bras, since the elastic always goes. A three-pack of tank tops because it’s FUCKING HOT OUT, plus a tank dress with pockets, because feminist Twitter spent, like, a month bitching about how women’s clothing never has pockets because OMG TEH PATRIARCHY and I just wanted to prove it’s not that you can’t get pockets but more like you don’t fucking bother to buy shit with pockets, ladies.

There are very few people who need to wash their bed linens as much as I do. Maybe I’ll pull that off tomorrow, so we can sleep in on the weekend in fresh, cleeeeeean sheeeeeets.

Here’s a tiny dalek.