May you be thirty years in heaven before the devil knows you're dead
I'm so so sorry *sobs wildly* I still haven't been able to locate reliable internets. Wouldn't you just know that the place I'm staying has the one awesomely faulty phoneline in town? Even my grandmother's is better and she lives in an old Queenslander with an outside toilet, for crying out loud. I don't want to go there in case I have to help her go the toilet, in case you're wondering. I solemnly swear that I will timetable a fic-catch up time when I get home, as well as answering replies (expect to find some old comments cropping up in your inbox!!) and reading at least some of the flist. Gahness. Apologies. Road works ahead.
Australia is characterised by people not wearing shoes, beef instead of pork sausages, and submission the season of winter by dint of wearing a jumper with your miniskirt. At least so it is in Far North Queensland. My most interesting times thus far have been: Watching butterflies mate, and reading Nicholas Nickleby on Mission Beach. Why, oh why, is Dickens so damned hard to concentrate on?! But Margaret Atwood is my new favourite author. I managed to sign myself up to a library without ID by sweet-talking the (male) librarian. *smirk*
Oh and yes. Have made awful mistake in college course choice. At least the swinging depression thing has a source now, not that it improves matters much. I keep thinking of Gandalf in Moria, reading from Balin's book: "There are drums, drums in the deep. We cannot get out. We cannot get out." I can't get out, there's nowhere else to go. Fun times ahead, I predict!
And finally: rainspots. Because I accidentally offended one good friend by my desire not to pimp, and I have no wish to repeat that mistake. Just accept the crapness and move on with life, neh? Love y'all.