one of those moods

I am slowly adjusting to life without Wallace. It’s painful. Yesterday upon talking to my dad online, I made one more attempt to retrieve him, this time using a milk powder can turned bucket with the help of some string, but that was also unsuccessful and resulted in more crying, so I decided that I had better just start the process of getting over it rather than continuing to hope. Anyway, it’s disgusting in there. Too much poking about in that goo will make you barf.

The good news is that my computer is on most of the time and this way I can give up on the headphones, thus irritating the entire compound with my North American music. What-evah. I have been forced to listen to the same one song in some language I can’t even identify over and over since I arrived. My turn. (No, I’m not serious. Yes, I’m listening to music out loud, but no, it’s not loud enough to bother other people. How rude do you think I am? Honestly. It’s like you take me seriously or something. LIKE I WOULD FORCE MY MUSIC ON PEOPLE. Heh.)

THUSLY, I’m not completely without music for the moment. I just will be the next time I have to fly anywhere. Gar. Don’t talk to me. I am going to be the crabby person of the century. And it’s only 2007. There are 93 years to go. At least we’ll get it over with early.

Can I just say that it’s hard to, ehem, use a latrine in which I know that my precious Wallace is buried?

I’m clearly a little slaphappy. This is what happens when you combine extreme heat and dehydration with extreme grief and loss.

Southern Sudan’s heat has forced me to take back yet another of my fashion despisings. I have always despised capris. You know, the short version of jeans/khakis/etc.? (Not the island, obviously, where I have never been.) Hated, hated, hated. I am too tall for normal clothes, you see, and after the strugglings of years and years of searching for clothes with long enough sleeves and long enough legs, I just can’t bring myself to PURPOSEFULLY purchase trousers that are too short. ON PURPOSE. But it’s real hot here. I mean, it’s reh-ally hot. As one might have noticed from my previous comments about the excessive heat. If I want to wear something that’s not a skirt (and, being a good modern girl, I occasionally do), the jean-ace are just too warm. Since I spend most of my time lurking in the coolest place I can find, it would be counter-productive to ruin all that effort of lazing about through wearing of actual clothing. So I compromised. I’m wearing jeans, but I rolled them up. This results in something that is unfortunately all too similar to capris. Just don’t expect me to buy them, people. They are my last option. It’s just that I can only actually wear about four of my skirts here because the other ones, even though they cover my knees and would have been totally FINE in EVERY OTHER PLACE I’VE EVER LIVED, are just too short. I’m sick of those four.

Funny thing, though: I never get sick of wearing jeans. Why is that?