Okay, I have some good news.

My computer is working, and I have an internet connection, albeit a banner-loaded one.

We got a bunch of new hardware, and despite the string of morons that were working on our computer in the past, we didn't have to pay for the month of service that was done on it.

So the games work great.

Now the bad news. One of my email accounts (a pop account) has died a horrible death, and won't be revived. This means I lost ~1000 emails from various sources. Also, my old ICQ database appears to be corrupted. This may or may not mean that years of correspondance is lost forever.

All in all though, the bad news seems to be outweighed by the good news, since I can now play any game I want. I'm just so tired of having to flog my computer over one thing or another. I mean, I just want it to work . . . I don't expect it to clean the house and cook me dinner or anything.

I love referral stats.

Apparently someone was looking for pictures of Giles Duceppe.

I don't know why anyone would be looking for that, but for the record, I don't have any.

Okay, maybe just one.

Picture stolen from Blocquebecois.org

Home.

We are home, finally. (Dear God, let this be the last time . . . )

Home in a place that is ours, where no landlord can bitch us out or evict us for the furry critters we keep under our roof. Home is a place where there is room for our enormous amount of shit. Home is where everywhere we want to go is only 10-15 minutes away.

Home is also a place where the cable and telephone lines were planned out 30 years ago, where only 2 legitimate phone jacks exist, and cable is only on the main floor. Home is where you get no dial-tone because some idiot thought it he could wire a phone jack into the other bedrooms and instead left a short-circuit. Home is where there are innumerable holes in the walls and floors because someone didn't think that running the extra wiring through the cold-air duct might be a better idea.

Home is where you take out the glass in the windows to pass the furniture through, and everyone forgets what order they are supposed to go in. Home is where you have perishable food items packed in a box, but you can't find the box. Home is where the towel rack falls off the wall on the 3rd day.

But hey, it is home, and that really does count for something.

The last five months were like wading through icy Scottish bogs in bare legs with nothing but a wool skirt with a 40 lb. broadsword strapped to your hip. Only those poor, hairy, stinking bastards of 600 years ago could fully understand.

Like the poor, hairy, stinking bastards that came before us, I would like to drag my beleaguered ass up onto the hilltop, thrust my bloodied broadsword down into the soil and give a resounding yell that would echo through the highlands.

I'm tired. Someone launder my tartan and pass me a fucking chicken leg.