Emmy’s sitting at the bottom of the stairs meowing at the door. It’s official. She wants out.
Not really. Actually, the apartment has come together quite nicely. We’ve still got some issues with the tub and the fridge, but neither is so horrific that a little strategically-placed tupperware can’t contain the flood until repair.
Speaking of “on the mend,” I now have little excuse not to focus almost exclusively on the job front again.
It’d be easier if I had clue what I want to be when I grow up.