Most of my stuff is now in my room in my house for term-time. The laptop, evidently, is not one of them, as it tends to be attached to my person pretty much constantly.

I have lots to do. I have to do some writing, both for pleasure and for a purpose. When I get ALL my stuff into my room, I will tackle the window frame, as it needs cleaning. Years of damp has built up on the white frames and I have an overwhelming urge to scrub that shit off HARD. Shouldn’t be too difficult. I’m a cleaning whizz when I get mad at dirt.

After being thoroughly evil and snappy with everyone who helped me to move I feel guilty, and I wish I could control my temper, except I can’t. When I need to scream, I need to scream. It’s been that way since I was a little girl, as far as I know, and I’m too set in my ways to change it.

I’m now aware that I really am blathering, so I have just one more thing to say to the masses before I retire to bed: I would rather be smart than pretty. I wrestled with this for a couple of years. And that is my decision. Male attention? Only if I come out with something witty and stinging, please.

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