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