This morning, my brother noted this morning that he's got tentative plans to move out this summer. I can't blame him; I know that (in no particular order) my ferrets and habits get on his nerves fairly often. I myself have daydreamed lately, usually while walking around Montrose, of finding a place of my own, which I will populate with the handful of material goods I call my own, the ferrets, empty tallboys, and music.

I'm not looking forward to the possibility of moving again. I'm tired of it. Maybe this is my chance to just hotfoot my ass somewhere else, though I sure as hell ain't gonna bet on it.

At least he mentioned it sooner than later, so I have some time to dig up a new address and, if need be, a roommate.

Other than that: I can't wait for warmer weather, my car to get out of the shop, my eventual trip to Mexico City, and this weekend.

Life is all right. True believers know how to apply the proper inflection to the last two words of that phrase.