No, not me, although I could use it. My thirties' body isn't quite so glamorous as my twenties' physique.
I mean this crazy little crackerbox of a house we live in. We live right at the division between nice houses and absolute ghetto. It makes for interesting evenings, sitting outside, watching the nice rich folks jogging as they give Mr. Thug-wannabe-with-his-pants-hanging-off-his-ass on his Bluetooth earpiece a very wide berth. Limousines and loud Cadillacs with gold rims pass by. It's truly surreal at times.
The house is very small, but as many of you know, rent is high. We signed another lease last week and these people didn't raise our rent. Whew.
I've taken upon myself to straighten this place out, and get rid of the growing amassed baby paraphernalia to make room for 'nice things' which I haven't had in well over six years.
(Divorce, my friends, is a horrible wasteland...)
We rearranged the living room with the new rug. We cleaned out some of the kitchen cupboards. We recycled a whole ton of plastics and cardboard. The result is I can now semi-walk through the whole house without having to trip over stuff or mutter to myself that I really need to get to that soon.
Oh, and writing. I got the need for somewhat privacy on the vampire goodies so they've been put away from the public eye. Still restructuring what my particular breed does. I did a few notes, attempted to read two pages of history before being called away. The book is still laying open on the sofa but it's time to go to work.
Hot coffee. Biscuits. And I'm off.