Okay, here we go now:
Is this picture of Colm Wilkinson? Because if it is, that makes me happy. Colm is the best Valjean, though there appear to be a number of good ones. I like this quiz, but don't intend to take it again, as the last time I retook a quiz I was Count Rugen, and who knows, maybe Count Rugen will somehow find his way into the Les Mis lineup, and that would be bad. "And remember, this is for posterity, so please -- be honest. How do you feel?" I mean, I feel cruel sometimes, but Pits of Despair are really not my thing.
In other news, I have been dealing with insomnia this week. Last night I beat it by taking some medicine, and slept 11 hours (paying down my sleep deficit) -- and was wakened not by the alarm clock but by a large chunk of plaster falling off the ceiling onto my roommate's bed. So then neither of us were asleep anymore. I said, looking at her dust-covered pillow, "That almost hit your head!" "It did hit my head," she said. So I gave her my bed and went downstairs to read the Sugar Quill boards. And then later she got up with a migraine (if I had migraine, I'd have a headache too after that), and we had to tear up the whole room to clean all the plaster and coal dust off the floor and the books and the walls and everything else. This is a 90-year-old house, and was recently (badly) re-roofed, so that's why there's plaster falling in the upstairs rooms, and why there's coal dust under the plaster. When Dad Hyatt told me that, I was momentarily relieved that the black stuff wasn't mold -- momentarily, because then I remembered that coal dust gives people lung disease too. Greeeaaaat, I thought, that's good news for my asthma. Oh well, life does go on.
In addition to this, there was a funny growly humming noise going on in our bathroom upstairs, which I noticed when I was in there to grab my shower things to go downstairs. It sounded like it was coming from the toilet water line. Like there was air in the pipes or something. Jessica was concerned about it too, so I asked Dad H. to come up and look. So he did, and I told him my theory, and he said, "Well, it shouldn't be doing that unless the toilet's running." So we decided to flush the toilet, and as he did that, he put his foot out and stepped on the massaging bath pillow on the floor, and turned it off. So there you are.
Is this picture of Colm Wilkinson? Because if it is, that makes me happy. Colm is the best Valjean, though there appear to be a number of good ones. I like this quiz, but don't intend to take it again, as the last time I retook a quiz I was Count Rugen, and who knows, maybe Count Rugen will somehow find his way into the Les Mis lineup, and that would be bad. "And remember, this is for posterity, so please -- be honest. How do you feel?" I mean, I feel cruel sometimes, but Pits of Despair are really not my thing.
In other news, I have been dealing with insomnia this week. Last night I beat it by taking some medicine, and slept 11 hours (paying down my sleep deficit) -- and was wakened not by the alarm clock but by a large chunk of plaster falling off the ceiling onto my roommate's bed. So then neither of us were asleep anymore. I said, looking at her dust-covered pillow, "That almost hit your head!" "It did hit my head," she said. So I gave her my bed and went downstairs to read the Sugar Quill boards. And then later she got up with a migraine (if I had migraine, I'd have a headache too after that), and we had to tear up the whole room to clean all the plaster and coal dust off the floor and the books and the walls and everything else. This is a 90-year-old house, and was recently (badly) re-roofed, so that's why there's plaster falling in the upstairs rooms, and why there's coal dust under the plaster. When Dad Hyatt told me that, I was momentarily relieved that the black stuff wasn't mold -- momentarily, because then I remembered that coal dust gives people lung disease too. Greeeaaaat, I thought, that's good news for my asthma. Oh well, life does go on.
In addition to this, there was a funny growly humming noise going on in our bathroom upstairs, which I noticed when I was in there to grab my shower things to go downstairs. It sounded like it was coming from the toilet water line. Like there was air in the pipes or something. Jessica was concerned about it too, so I asked Dad H. to come up and look. So he did, and I told him my theory, and he said, "Well, it shouldn't be doing that unless the toilet's running." So we decided to flush the toilet, and as he did that, he put his foot out and stepped on the massaging bath pillow on the floor, and turned it off. So there you are.
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