Dear College Kids having an impromptu block party in front of my building:
You do not live here. You do not live here, and I don’t care what they told you at freshman orientation, the city is not ‘your campus’. You have one. It’s two miles that way. Go celebrate your football team winning their first game there (I presume they won, otherwise you really have no excuse) and leave the rest of us alone. Or, as my neighbor (now hero) shouted out the window at you moments after you woke me the fuck up, “Take that shit elsewhere; this ain’t yo mamma’s house!”
On a related note, it turns out that turning 27 makes one the ‘get off my lawn’ sort of aged. I’ll be drinking myself back to sleep now.
Yes :) (I really do mean it, this isn’t me being a dick, I promise! It’s just that for me, the impulse behind writing the piece to begin with is how the connections between and among the three of them are tenuous and ever-shifting, and how love means/takes different forms for different people. Which is weird, I realize, but I never claimed to be playing with a full deck. I can tell you for certain that there will not be a 4th party swooping in Mycroft-style to pull any of the three of them on a different trajectory, because that would be bogus, amirite?)
Acclimating to a radically different time zone means staying up til 5am reading fanfiction on purpose:
It also means that, while organizing the extremely important final details of rapidly-upcoming international travel, I am utterly useless during about 50% of business hours:
(I just keep reminding myself that people far stupider and less organized than I have managed to pull this off. It usually works until I remember that I 1.) don’t speak or read any Asian languages, which tends to be a disadvantage in, say, Asia, and 2.) can’t sleep on airplanes. Whoops.)