It's been (relatively) silent up in here for a while. Perhaps in part to moving and then a low level continuous sick, as well as some preturbing insomnia. However, longtime readers know that insomnia and bitching about insomnia is practically the status quo around here.
The housemates are good, suspiciously good, next week they'll probably turn out to all be some sort of cult or give money to Pat Robertson (like my grandpa!) or something.
The job is challenging. I should really learn how to let things go and not be too stressed out or not get depressed about it. There are some parts of it that are really good. There are parts of it that are not so good.
It's cold and rainy that doesn't help.
Somehow, acting cheerful all the time seems to help, but at the same time, I feel a little disconnected from what is actually going on both outside and inside. I think Haruki Murakami writes lots of books about people with detatchable selves, where things can happen to people, sometimes really horrific things, and it's not like it's happening to them. Not that anything horrific has happened to me, quite the opposite really, but still I feel sometimes like my life is happening to some me that's not quite me, if that makes sense.