There's a woman out here having some sort of soda machine emergency. Involves running, lots and lots of running. (Also loud profanity and a possible dog.)
And to think I didn't want to go to the mall because I didn't want to be around crazy people.
I'm actually outside tonight not for fake farming (though I'll do that as well) or email checking, but to watch fanvids of a British TV show that will likely end in a not-to-be-continued cliffhanger with the season finale next week. I've kinda earned it, as I finally potted the rest of my plants (after engineering pots out of plastic party candy dishes and queso lids) and ate a meal a real grown-up would cook.
BTW, why is it that I can eat a microwave pizza and feel just dandy, but after cooking a pan full of fried chicken and a baked potato, need to refuel after an hour? Does the time put into the cooking somehow lessen the fulfilment of the meal? Because I'd think it was the opposite.
They're working on our parking lot right now (suddenly, all the people who've driven myself or DD home lately shouted a hallelujah), which has the great perk of the fire-entrance fence ten feet from our door is open for the construction trucks to get around. What's that, five minutes I can save tomorrow by not having to go out and around the front half of our building? Why, yes, I will use you to sleep later.
This slightly stream of consciousness post brought to you by the best plate of fried chicken I've made yet. Also, the letter U.