Hedgehogs on the Rampage

So it turns out Lindsey and I are both experiencing mental breakdowns tonight, which is cool. Much better than launching into raving madness alone. I myself am dealing with this by staring at my computer and failing to write anything. The computer screen is so bright it makes my pupils hurt because I refuse to turn on any lights because I can't handle the heat from the lightbulbs. You might think that at this point, a little extra heat wouldn't matter, but in this case it is the difference between mere anger and debilitating rage. It's so hot I don't even want to watch TV.

(That means it's really hot.)

Becky, who was here for an UBER-FUN visit, can attest to the fact that certain portions of my keyboard do not work in the heat. I now have a witness. Of course, after subjecting said witness to hours of lunacy, my driving (I swear to The Lord Above in whom I do not so much believe: I am quite capable when I know where the hell I'm going), and the sun, dirt, and bad English accents of the Renaissance Festival, AND a diet consisting solely of bagels, cream cheese, and Cheez-Its, she may not be willing to testify.

By the way, Beckly, Mary definitely does not get married at the end of The Secret Garden. I guess Hallmark just wanted to hire Colin Firth? I hold no grudge against them for that.

For the remainder of the evening I think I shall sit here listening Coldplay which I can't hear properly over the damn fan, and whimper quietly. Jen offered to be my guide whenever I decide to depart for Alaska. Apparently she is "well-versed in the customs of the north" and can make friends with timber wolves, whom she claims are "misunderstood." Also, she already has a coonskin cap. I'm thinking of going tomorrow. I cannot possibly sit around here for another day.