but seriously

I have unpacked, my room has been returned to its proper order and things are looking rather more OK with the world. Two major transportation disasters transpired with my belongings: (1) a suitcase that apparently burst in transit and appeared bundled up in tape on the luggage collection belt, clothes and books spewing from it like leaking innards, and (2) my M-Bag, which similarly gave up the ghost and exploded somewhere on its journey over the Atlantic Ocean. The latter was the greater loss because several “keeping” books I had in it are now irredeemably bent and misshapen, including a rather nice hardcover Grapes Of Wrath which is now sitting under a stack of telephone books in the hopes that it may be restored. Other lesser casualties include The Little Prince, my American Sign Language dictionary and Bridge Odds for Practical Players by Kelsey and Glauert. Lesson learned: you get what you pay for.

In other news: (and I promise I will say this only once and no more), it is blastedly hot. Everyone says this upon return, and still, it loses none of its meaning. It’s hot! It’s ridiculously, murderously, impossibly hot!

Currently reading:
Galatea 2.2 – Richard Powers. Poach says that she didn’t really like it, but I suppose that having studied neuroscience I am obliged.