Snowbound and Irate

It's a new semester. Spring isn't here yet; we're still in the depths of Winter, the days only just now starting to creep longer and longer as the sun comes back to the world. Not fast enough at all, in my opinion, but at least it's a trend I can embrace. Everything still in hibernation, stuck in this frozen holding pattern, but you can at least pretend that if you squint? You can see the shoots about to force their way up through the snow, questing for the light.

All this light and growth needs to stop right now, though, because for some reason I've a pounding headache while I try to get through syllabi and finding the right classrooms and all the rest. And for those who've seen my little shrine to the source of my headache? I'm leaving it up. As a warning, if nothing else; it'll remind me not to post in that sort of state. If I listen to myself, which I probably won't.

Speaking of other alternatives to a social life, since I've fucked that one up royally? Consider this my formal announcement: I'm going to start running a D&D game, if we've got enough interested people. I'd like to note that this is my first time playing, but I'm ready to jump in with both feet, so...be kind to me, if you're interested? I'm thinking of a once-a-week schedule, sometime on the weekend, with the first pass this weekend to get together, talk about what I have in mind, and get characters started. If you're interested, either drop me a note in this post or catch me and let me know?

Last but not least: Annie? I found my phone. It looks like I called you in the middle of...well, sometime after that post, but before I passed out. I don't remember at all what we talked about, but I have a feeling I need to apologize. A lot. Will understand if you don't want to talk to me again.

Looks like time is up; back to the grind of the rest of the day.

First, a disclaimer about the last: I'm not diving out a third story window, or planning on finding a convenient rafter to hang myself by my belt from, or going to shove ice down the back of Dot's shirt, or any of the dozens of other methods of suicide I can conceive of. So stop fretting about the title, and let me write this in the right order.

I've been simply thinking for days, ever since Vinny left. For those who didn't know, my ex-girlfriend came to visit for Christmas. Actually, she came to scope out Icaria, and tormenting me was just a handy side benefit. Seems The Powers That Be have their long fingers and watchful eyes on her as well, and sent her the usual lure of a scholarship. I'm not sure she could have picked worse timing for when to actually find me, or a worse convocation of circumstances to get tangled up in the middle...

Actually, scratch that. I've a wild enough imagination that I can picture it, and with my luck, it'll come to pass when she decides to drop in again now that she's pinpointed me on her radar. Let's pray that never happens.

Anyway, where was I? Oh yes. Thinking. Vinny was here in a whirlwind -- found me staggering between a blow to the nose and an apology on Christmas, Lunch onward on Boxing Day, and then gone before I'd even woken up the day after. I imagine there's a section of the audience laughing their asses off now. After all, that's two girls lost inside a month, and one of them was stalking me. I must be some catch, huh?

Except the second left a letter, at least, along with some cold clarity that I've spent the last few days processing. Which is why Miss Scarlett, the Round Table, and Lust are now carefully pinned up over my desk, as a reminder. (Thanks, guys, again.) Vinny's letter is pinned up as well, closed so the lipstick shows, just beneath them.

Because I've been loved. Screwed up, messed up, mixed up mess, but still love...and from what I've seen, I'm not sure love is ever anything but. And I nearly loved, was starting to love, a girl who didn't love me back. Or maybe she was afraid to love me back, afraid to even consider the possibility. It amounts to the same thing now, as there's no chance to break down the walls and see where possibilities will take us. There's too much ocean in the way, for one thing, and she didn't brand me as hers clearly enough before she left. My heart broken, but with no formal bill of sale before she fled the store.

So my heart's broken. Congratulations, Billy Boy, you join the ranks of a million, billion other people who've come before you, poets and artists and writers and mailmen and accountants and meter maids and farmers and all the rest. Doesn't make you special...or does it? It's not a very exclusive club, and it doesn't give me right to run off and be a self-absorbed ass (at least, not for any longer than anyone's got that right for a bit at points in their lives), but it's still...a step. A test. Every day's a test, sure, but sometimes you pay attention to certain tests more than others.

It boils down to a question: how do I want to pass this test?

I've loved, and lost, and went rampaging in a brief but colorful dance along the edge of the dark. I find myself glad at times that my vices are wine, women and song...though I'm sure my neighbors are sick of my musical tastes. I am, I think, a courteous drunkard; no public displays of unfortunate affection, no flirtations I regret in the morning, no drunk dialing, no attempting to hit on my best friend just because I'm sauced. (Because, of course, I like to remember when I hit on my best friend.) So while it could all be a whole hell of a lot worse? I'd like to be a little bit better.

I must, therefor, reneg on giving up women, and giving up on the human race. Because I've had reminders the last few days of why I feel the way I do about both, and coupled with that aforementioend introspective haze I've been in I feel like...well. It hurts, it still hurts, but it's not a hurt I regret. I try not to regret even the mistakes.

But this is still the end...the end of the year, and the start of a new one. I don't know that I want to make resolutions, exactly; someone once said that promises were just made to be broken. But...well, let's just say I have bullet points:

• I'm grateful, and thankful, and all that mess, for the friends I've made in the three short months I've been up here in wintry exile. Dot, Emi, Anne, and Mikhail get top billing, but they're not the entire roster.
• Dot? Special recognition for going above and beyond the call of duty, more than once. I can't make it up, but you know I'd do the same for you without hesitation. Or I hope you know. I even have spots ready to help you hide the bodies.
• Thank you, Tanne. Because there were good times.
• Yes, I did give Byron the clap and the pox, and I'm fucking PROUD. So there. OMG, ourloveissopure.
• I'm not giving up on girls, but I am...well, let's say I'm giving up lust for lent. Yes, even if the closest I come to being Catholic are a few similarities between Krishna and Christ.
• Watch this space for geekery of the highest degree, to be announced formally before the semester starts. I'm still reading the books, but...ideas are forming.
• The past is the past, and can stay right the fuck there, thanks.

That last one, in particular, I know is harder put into practice than simply said, but...it's a sort of goal to aim for, I think. There are too many ghosts.

Oh, and as a final closing note: I hear there's a party tonight, to celebrate the new year. While I'm not doing my best hermit impression anymore, I'm not quite recovered enough to feel like I'd manage in a crowd. So instead, I'll be hosting a tiny little celebration in MacArthur. If anyone wants to drop in and give a toast, either before or after the main event over at Geoffrey's, feel free. That goes double for you, Dot and Hemi, if you guys make it back in time.

Whatever your choice of venue, whoever you choose to spend it with: have a lovely New Year's Eve, kiss the person you want to kiss at midnight, and may the year to come be fucking spectacular.

PS -- Because I can't help but play DJ for a moment or two, I leave you with appropriate tunes from some boys from Seattle I'm a little fond of.

Death Cab for Cutie, "The New Year"

For the last week, I've only come out of my room for classes and rehearsal. Which admittedly is most of my free time around studying anyway, so who knows if anyone's noticed. I'm looking forward to Sunday's final curtain call, because it means I can come back. If there's a cast party planned, I think I'm skipping. If you think I'm showing up at the dance tonight, you're badly hallucinating.

There is no option I appreciate more right now. Either the world is as Hamlet says, and I'm simply haunted in one form of the term or the other? Or it's not paranoia when they really are out to get you, in which case I can't for the LIFE of me think of why. Either way, it makes the bottom fall out of my stomach.

Sometimes, the sinking feeling is realizing that your facade is fooling even the people you care most about, who you thought knew better.

The rest of the time, it's getting incontrovertible proof that you cared more, and you aren't even worth telling that they're not coming back. Because nothing says "I cared about you" like letting you read that you're taking a quick vacation to Italy before your house arrest elsewhere in Europe as an off-hand comment in someone else's journal.

I'd swear off women, but Dot's right. That I couldn't manage. Instead, I'm swearing off the whole god-damn human race. I think I'll take up alcoholism for Winter Break. I have to do something with my time.

Oh, and George? Lesson learned. I just didn't realize your cock was so small you had to overcompensate to that degree. But as they say: knowing is half the battle.

I've never done well with silence. Maybe it gives me too much time to hear what's going on in my own head...though I think that may be a cop-out. I know what's going on inside my head half the time, after all. I like it in there; it's warm, and dark, and a little squishy in the right places, and private. I don't necessarily like what I find, though, which may be closer to the crux of the problem.

That, or maybe I'm simply a dancing fool, always looking for a song cue. Which is a note as good as any other for seguing to the next topic. Namely: I've been crowned king! Come on, not Homecoming, I know that's been a regular topic around here with me, but you've got to keep up. No, I got cast as Charlemagne in this year's production of Pippin. I'm kind of glad I know most of the lyrics already, as we're doing a sort of crash-course in rehearsal-and-production timing. Really, I sort of wonder if this was all planned and meant to be some devious drama department development to see how many of us crack under the pressure. (And for those interested? I'm starting a betting pool. Get in touch, we'll talk.)

There was indeed a Black Friday Turkey-a-thon, with a bigger crowd that I expected. I suppose I shouldn't be surprised that I'm not the only one too far out of reach of parents, and that didn't even factor in not wanting to see family. Dot's turkey was divine, and my pumpkin pies didn't turn out half-bad, so I think I'll call it a success.

That was the high point. The week or more since has been a slow, steady descent into less pleasant times. The weekend was shot entirely for reasons I don't want to get into, rehearsal schedule on top of studying and paper schedule is hellish, and plans for this past Friday? Shot down by a combination of bad timing, unavailable train tickets, and an emergency rehearsal. Which means it'll be two weeks after Thanksgiving, at the earliest, before I get a chance to see Neela. She's going to kill me. At least my originally planned travel companion is still up for the trip. We just have to find time for it. And soon. I can't keep putting it off, for a thousand reasons.

It's been an interesting scattershot of social time across the rest of the week. There was the study break that turned into no study at all, there was some unexpected comfort offered on THanksgiving, there was a bit of chatting about my impending madness, and then? I met someone old who's new again, and I think scared them off. Which was a shame, since she was fun to talk to. Actually, most of the scattershot was up rather than down, just...not peaking above the general downward trend.

Which leads me to my second awkward admission of the day: I don't understand people. Women in particular, but I think that may just be because I pay attention to them more than the men. Most men, after all, are still struggling to rise above the level of barbarians. And I include myself in that assessment.

I don't understand why it's been radio silence for so long. Is it that hard to say "we're over", if that's what you've decided? Or...Krishna, I don't know. You don't want to know how many disasterous possibilities have rotated through my head in the last week.

Unfortunately, there is no excuse when it comes to me. I understand me. I know exactly why I react the way I do, most of the time. But that doesn't make me happy about it, or proud, or...anything terribly positive. Blushing women of the world, lured in by my easy smile and my admittedly charming banter? Get away while you still can. Just trust me on this one. I'll miss you, but it may blow up less in all our faces.

It happened again. It wasn't in the shower; I was actually laying in bed, trying to figure out what the hell to do with myself for Thanksgiving. I didn't even close my eyes...or if I did, it was a blink, a matter of an instant.

But it was long minutes, blood suddenly pounding in my veins, the smell of the sea around me again. It was night, the stars spread like glitter across black velvet above us, and blacker than pitch down in the hold save for the single lantern I was carrying. There was a scuffle in the dark, and a protesting squeal from the rats before he was on me. I couldn't see his face, the darkness casting dizzying shadows as the lantern swung desperately as a shield in front of me as I fumbled for my knife. There was the clank of metal-on-metal, and then we fell in a heap of limbs and steel. His breath was rank in my face, the smell of my own sweat almost overpowering as I fought for my life.

Almost as suddenly as it had begun, there was a rush of hot blood over my hands and a gurgle from the man who'd attacked me. I sat up panting, and stared down at my knife, shoved up under his jaw. The ship was suddenly rocked by a wave...and I blinked again, and was back in my bed.

On the one hand, I hope Dot is right. This is close enough to madness as it is, but at least it's not my madness, and it has a source. On the other...well. After that, how the hell can I do anything but worry?

I wish I knew what the hell was going on in this place.

Fuck. I...fuck, I don't know what the hell that was.

Right. I've taken a few more dozen deep breathes. I'm recording this for me, just in case we need a record of my slide out of sanity. Neela, you may be getting more company than you expected soon.

Fuck.

All right: after I finished practicing, so I'm not going to be a total rusty bastard when Slutty Moll has a rehearsal, I went to grab a shower before bed. Everything normal. Water warm, soap sudsy, me naked, yadda yadda yadda. Only when I closed my eyes to lean back into the water to rinse my hair? Suddenly it was...vertigo. The world spinning under me. Because I swear I could feel the wind in my hair, and the spray wasn't coming from overhead. It was coming from the waves as the bow crashed through them. I can still remember the rough bite of the rope under my hand, and the sway of the ship under me. I can taste the salt tang from the breeze. I could, if you set me down, sketch the outline of the islands we were sailing past. Tropical coves, waiting for buried treasure.

And when I opened my eyes again? Gone. As if it had never been.

I don't know what it means. Why the hell am I dreaming of sailing ships? And while I'm awake? I haven't been binging on either PotC or Horatio Hornblower, for gods' sakes.

I'm going to sleep, and hope I dream of large women. Or sun god robes. Or...fuck. I don't know. Anything but that.

(All right. Not anything. Not that again, but not this either.)

They say Spring is the time for romance. I think they have never had to endure a New England Winter. As I ward off the ever-present threat of frostbite, and watch my fellow animals in this zoo we call Icaria, I've come to the conclusion that while Spring may be a time for lovers, these dwindling days of Autumn are just as much an aphrodesiac. After all, when you're snowbound inside, what would you rather be doing?

a. Homework
b. Gossiping about who's sleeping with who
c. Expanding the range of possibilities vis-a-vis who's sleeping with who

Let's just say I'm putting my money on the last two options. Maybe it's more than the cold; even a tropical snob like me has to admit that the leaves are gorgeous this time of year, the forest aflame in ways that I'll leave it to much better poets than I to attempt to describe. I'd quote Robert Frost, but all that comes to mind is Fire and Ice:

Some say the world will end in fire;
Some say in ice.
From what I've tasted of desire
I hold with those who favor fire.
But if it had to perish twice,
I think I know enough of hate
To know that for destruction ice
Is also great
And would suffice.

At least it's poetry that's vaguely on-topic, as well. We've certainly got enough ice around here these days, and I know it's just going to get worse. As for fire...well. We can count it a blessing for some that I wasn't burned like Guy Fawkes at Dot's Fundraising Dinner -slash- Pizza Extravaganza. Perhaps she's saving that for Homecoming, though; I would go up in a pretty good blaze if we soaked me in all the alcohol we can afford from donations. That, or maybe she'll toss me to the other girls who didn't have Campaign Managers. I know we've got to have a bacchanal around here at some point, dammit!

(Special note to someone who shall remain nameless: You still have three days. If you haven't yet, ASK HER.)

Of course, the girls apparently lost the lottery to see who would tar and feather me first. As previously and briefly reported, I was given what I do believe the young kids are calling "a trouncing" after the party. Four guys, none of whom I saw real clearly in the dark, and a pummeling later, and into the dumpster I went. Wounds were relatively minor: a black eye, some scrapes, a twisted ankle, a wounded ego, and one unrepairable shoe. Somehow, I was lucky enough to have a sharp-tongued Angel of Mercy drop in and apply first aid to the physical wounds, and a good lancing to the ego before it tried to fester. Add in a more gentle touch later that night, and a weekend to recover, and I do believe the limp and the shiner will be gone in time for Homecoming. Underlying causes? We'll address after we find out if I'm surviving Saturday.

Speaking of Homecoming: yours truly is dateless. C'est la vie! Thankfully, my fingers will be occupied with other pursuits -- at least, hopefully, this will be my debut as the trumpet section for Smutty Moll. Though still, given the way things are looking, I may be the only guy going stag. I was..let us say, pre-empted?...in my first choice by Mr. Fly-By-Night, and the second option...well. Apparently, even the budding possibility of Autumn romance is more whirlwind up here than even I'm used to. I can't be upset, though. Not in the face of budding adorableness to this degree. They may actually need to issue a license; I'm not certain this kind of cute isn't lethal in uncontrolled doses.

As I look back over my previous paragraph, a clarification: I don't mean to say that second and any other options unasked (one was suggested to me, but I think I'm staying further away from the knives than that, at least for that night) would have been consolation dates compared to who I had been considering at first. I'm not that cutthroat and mercenary a bastard. There is a damn reason I'm going stag rather than working my way down the list into the truly desperate for a date, just like there's a reason I'm not even asking the possible third. She, and everyone else? Deserves better than that.

Anyway. Enough self-reflection. I'll just end by noting that, despite not having really talked about it? There is some serious strangeness afoot in this town. I think I've shaken the majority of the cloud that'd been over my head since Halloween. At least, I'd like to hope I have. But that leaves questions. Consider this a note to self: Talk to D and E when you get a chance. Better informed than blindsided again, after all.

So, I'm officially here, finally. Not just in Icaria, but in my room in MacArthur Hall at Eupheme. Nothing's unpacked but my laptop for the moment, but at least that much is done. Currently, I'm braving the chill evening breeze to air the room out. I'd almost believe I was a responsible student if I walked in on me, at this point.

Finding the school after leaving the B&B was pretty easy, especially with directions from my secret admirer after I complimented her muffins (the blueberry sort, you perverts.) It's hard to get lost in a town this size, though; I swear, all I'd need to do would be to climb the nearest tree, and I could probably get a birds-eye view of all the major streets from there. It wouldn't even need to be a particularly tall tree.

First obstacle successfully completed: find the school. Which lead directly to the second obstacle: negotiate the administration, and explain why I was a day late in arriving. Thankfully, with my parents entirely out of a reasonable time zone to contact in a reasonable manner, I was able to reasonably explain that there had been simple, reasonable miscommunication, and today was actually the day I was meant to get to town. Isn't it grand, living as we do in the Age of Reason? You can get away with a lot, as long as you know that fine line between buttering up your school officials and too obviously kissing their well-educated asses.

Having made it through both of those rings of fire, it was a cakewalk to find MacArthur Hall. Ah, home sweet home, at least for the next nine months or so. I'm also reassured: there were sane people there. At least two -- Emi, who apparently has the room next to mine, and Sam, who was moving out of the room I was moving into. Emi had a cold, apparently, which does wonders for reassuring me that he's not really a cyborg plant. (We're close to Stepford, after all; it was worth considering as a possibility!)

There were then the traditional offerings to new blokes: a cup of tea, and a few hits on the shared blunt. Aside from Emi's apparent pirate fetish (which hey, can you blame a guy?) they both seemed pretty normal. Though the stereo warning that "Lucy" -- whoever she is aside from the hot date Emi was having to miss -- wasn't looking for a boyfriend? Pretty damn funny. Even if I did let my lack-of-sleep slip show and mangle us into a digression on girls being girls versus girls being guys.

Aside: what is it about androgyny that comes in and out of fashion? Is it the mystery? Is it the fact that Julie Andrews was pretty fucking hot as both Victor and Victoria? And how about the issue that I don't really care how butch Shirley Manson is, I'd still do her in a heartbeat if given the opportunity? Maybe this is a side effect of that whole thing where sexuality isn't an absolute, but a spectrum, and I'm just further to the side of "hey, I'd totally get in the middle of a Rufus Wainwright/Alan Cumming sandwich if given the opportunity" than most other guys. Of course, in my experience, most other guys are absolutely desperate to prove they're not gay, not quote-unquote "weak", not standing out from the sheep's herd. Baaaa.

Sam's apparently in a band. Ska. And looking for a brass player. Conveniently enough, I did remember to bring my trumpet. We'll have to see just how things go once I can settle in and give them a try-out.

Sam is also, apparently, a bigger pothead than South American drug smugglers flying planes into Miami. That, or he's been hotboxing guys with the tolerance of bull rhinos up in his room. Emi took me upstairs to my room after Sam left -- which is probably good, because it kept me from staring at the man openly, given the sheer imbedded funk in the room. I'm surprised there wasn't resin caked on the walls in layers thick enough to scrape off and re-smoke.

After Emi abandoned me to the imposing reality of my situation, and I ascertained that the crap they had for cleaning in the Hall wasn't up to this particular challenge, I went in search of the first place I could think of where I could find them: the girls' dorm.

You can all point and laugh now at me being a sexist pig.

And this, of course, is the point in which I ran into Dot. At least, she didn't deny that she was Emi's Dot -- Dorothy, Diva of Delaney Hall. I'm not quite sure I trust Mon Capitan's position that she's the best girl on campus, even if he did offer me a position in the crow's nest. Actually, I will say that the girl thinks quick on her feet, and doesn't take shit -- even if I wasn't trying to give her shit. Go me and my first impressions, huh? And she owns me a raincheck. Note to self: make sure it's worth it when you cash it.

Ah well, at least she had lysol and that Oxy-clean stuff. Which, in combination, have done wonders for getting this place so that it doesn't smell like a Rastafarian Shrine. But now I'm so tired that the thought of facing class tomorrow makes me whimper. I cling to the bright spots: tomorrow night I can properly unpack, and in the morning? I think I actually have a date for coffee. Let's hope I can find the place.

Someone said that Hell is other people. I'm pretty sure it was Sartre. But he was French, so you can't trust a thing that bastard ever said. Hell, like heaven, is all in your head. Don't believe those cheerleaders when they try to tell you salvation can be found in the nearest closet for seven minutes.

Though let me tell you, those seven minutes do come close if you're in the right frame of mind.

One would think then that Hell was easy to avoid: keep a positive attitude, don't let The Man get you down, remind yourself that other people don't have control over what you feel. One who thinks that should then be laughed out of polite society for being dangerously naive. Anyone who is that in control of their own feelings is either dangerously solipsistic, and thus certain that only their feelings matter because they're the only person that is, or the Buddha. I'm neither, which is both a blessing and a curse. Instead, I am simply a man who realizes that he is not quite at the mercy of his surroundings, while still paying attention to them. In other words, Hell is in my own head, but other people get to help pick out the decor.

I'm writing this on the train, currently heading north out of Atlanta on our way to the Not-So-Great White Northeast. I'd try to sell you on it being terribly romantic, or at least exciting like the rides at the beginning of a Harry Potter book is, but I won't; Amtrak hasn't been romantic in decades, and I'm just not a good enough liar to pass off this feeling in the pit of my stomach as excitement instead of the dread it truly is. Honestly, my biggest thought at the moment is wondering why the hell my parents decided to send me off this way instead of by plane? Personally, I think they wanted to give me more time to contemplate my fate.

After spending the last decade and a half growing up in beautiful, sundrenched, bikini-babe-covered Miami, I find myself an exile now to climates that may as well be frozen-over Hell. This isn't even the twentieth century, must less the nineteeth; who sends their children off to boarding school anymore anyway? They can try to excuse it all they want -- tell me that Euphame is an honor to be accepted to, point out that with their jobs pulling both of them overseas it would be more trouble to get me into a proper school over there anyway, note that someone needs to stay close to poor Neela...but I know the truth. The moment they got back from seeing me to the train station? It was back to the house for a good ol' round of making the beast with two backs. Maybe I'll get a little brother out of the deal!

For as much as they're right about Neela, there are truly only two reasons to be glad for leaving Miami behind for the frosty aloofness of a Puritanical winter. First of all, it means I am away from my parents finally, and let's be honest: any mother who decides to give you the first and middle names of "William Makepeace", after her favorite author, needs some help. I should simply be glad I wasn't a girl, or I just know I'd be Rebecca Sharp Pendennis. It wouldn't be too bad for now, but the moment I hit college? Every professor and every hot guy majoring in Lit wouldn't have been able to stop laughing. And really, there's nothing sadder than a cute college girl who can't get a date except with idiots who don't read.

The second reason is, as most second reasons are, more complex. It's much easier to escape that ex you never want to see again at school if you're going to school in an entirely different state. It's even easier to dodge them -after- school that way, when you're not even bound by the dictates of class schedules. Now I can hear you all saying, 'It can't be that bad, Bill! It's just your ex, all sorts of people have to deal with seeing their ex-lovers frequently!' I'd like for you all to hear me saying, in answer to that? "Bite me." Let me tell you, it takes work to find a girl in high school that's actually worthy of a restraining order. You haven't filtered most of the sane ones out yet, or piled ten thousand students in one place like at a good-sized university, oh no. Instead, working with a limited pool, I manage to date the one girl who seems to think that high school romances last forever, who thinks spending more time with my parents than I do is a good way to endear herself, and who thinks that writing "Mrs. Bill Pendennis" all over the inside of her notebook is the best use ever invented for the ink in that Bic pen she's always chewing the end of.

Let's simply say that the breakup talk? Was not a fun one.

But two good things do not counterbalance being forcibly thrown out of the only place I've ever known, being separated from the friends I've had all my life, and forced to cope with life in a new school, a new town, a new state. Don't give me any excuses about 'everyone must leave the nest at some point'. I was planning on doing that without any help at all as soon as it was time for college. Doing it now? It's just plain cruel! But then, when has human nature ever shied away from cruelty? Just look at what our own government did in the name of "security", voting that it's just fine for us to condone torture as long as we can feel all right about it. I swear, everyone in Washington should have bamboo shoved under their nails before they get to vote on tossing out the Geneva Conventions. Of course, as they're mostly a bunch of pansy bastards, I'm sure they'd all squeal.

So now I am an unwilling expatriate, alone in one good way (may she never get permission to take a vacation in Massachusetts), and a great number of bad ones. I have very little idea what to expect, to be totally honest. Official pamplets being what they traditionally are, I don't much trust the document that was shoved into my hand just a few days before the date on my tickets. Thrust into the great unknown, and exiled from my tropical heaven to a decidedly frigid hell, I'm trying very hard to consider this an adventure and not a sentence. I suppose I should be glad I'm not like Neela, at the very least. She'd be disappointed in me if I gave up this easily, before I'd even gotten to this sun-forgotten place.

Besides, snowbunnies need love too, right?