Sloth, Who Cares?

I guess I had to come home, some time.

Since I've been back, it's been a characteristically strange experience; after day one, the roommates re-embraced me and my little self. I've third-wheeled to the point where I can no longer look at myself in the mirror; I've fifth-wheeled to the point where it's just an embarrassment. I'm now sharing short stories with a roommate's father, and I've taken to commisserating with other cripples so I can feel alright -- the whole nine.

No, it's been great being back, but I miss Colombia more than I'd care to admit. Mama G says I have a "Wandering Gene," I'd say I have a curious brain. She's probably right.

I miss Colombia, I miss My Friend, I miss Margaret Sands reading next to me as we decided what to do next; I miss it all, especially when I'm here in a city that has little to offer a lout like me. I'm trying to write my short story submissions, I've reveiwed the short films I'm supposed to judge, I walked the dog!

Now, what?

Well, it's Friday -- sooooo, I suppose it's time to ... watch some more movies, see some friends and not care about what I haven't accomplished.

But maybe manana I'll post the precises of the short stories I'm submitting -- even if to hate myself for doing so.