In which I don’t talk about Namibia for once.

I spent the past couple days at John’s house, watching movies and admiring the snow. It wasn’t that much, I could have gone home, but I really didn’t want to. And as luck would have it, I came back today and all of my roommates have now gone out of town. Unfortunately, my kitchen ceiling is also leaking. But not badly. It seems to have stopped, but I suspect it’s just because it’s gotten godawfully cold out, 17 degrees according to my phone, and there is no way any more can melt. Even if it already seeped in some.

In any case, it’s really nice to have the house to myself. I’m thinking I’ll finally mop the kitchen, since they’ve destroyed the floor and I’ve been ignoring it. And I won’t have to check that dishes have been properly washed since I’m the only one doing it and I do more than just run some water over them.

I’ve decided that since it’s winter, I don’t care and I’m going to let myself eat pasta whenever. I really love it, to a ridiculous degree, but even love-blinded I can tell it’s not good for me. But right now that’s all I want to eat, even though I have canned soup, and a thing of egg salad and some vegetable and chicken in the freezer. Who cares. I’ll outgrow it and be back to eating a wider variety of food soon enough. Tonight I made shells with mushrooms and garlic and fresh basil sauteed in butter, and mixed with feta and grape tomatoes. I’m debating making more.

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