Who will buy my sweet red roses, two blooms for a penny?
I have the entire score of Oliver stuck in my head. This is better. Last night it was Joseph and the Amazing Technicolour Dreamcoat and I was rocking out to "Potiphar was counting shekels in his den below the bedroom when he heard a mighty rumpus clattering above him..."
You can just imagine what happens next...
On another, related-if-you-happen-to-live-in-my-head-but-not-otherwise-so noteI have developed the sleeping habits of a geriatric. Whereas back in the day I was bopping away the night with the best of them, not calling it late unless I was sitting on the stoop nursing whatever SUPERMEGASUPREMEREALLYGREAT energy drink Cal and I happened to be testing what week, bitterly chainsmoking and watching the people roll into work, bright and chipper, now I'm out like a light at 12. Oops, it's that time. Off to beddy bye I go.
This really wouldn't be a big deal had I oodles of oodles of time, but with 75% of my waking hours consumed by work, and with 3 and a half days left on this coast, I feel like I need to be getting a lot more USE out of everything. As well as doing things such as packing. I am currently in a stage of disorganised mess-dom, with no real location for my possessions and no Russian visa as of yet. I conversed with the lady at the embassy and finally ascertained, through layers of static and bad accents that yes, I can get my visa in Korea and no, they won't arrest me as a spy.
Anyway, Jura has closed himself in the closet, as I told him to go away while I was writing, so I fear I must go liberate him. Or perhaps I'll leave him in there and cavort around his suite, making free and messy with all his VERY IMPORTANT papers and organisational system. Apparently the place has turned into a pigsty since I've semi-established myself here. Pigsty? Shoes in the middle of the floor, a couple books out of place. Heaven help the poor boy if he ever actually would have to live with me.
Oh poo... I thought he couldn't get out on his own. Alas, he found an inner knob. A tragedy, that.