I am so good. I figured out, by hook and crook and lots of luck, not to mention a heaping dollop of trial and error, just how to connect my mac at home with this stupid cable connection. All without an airport card, and absolutley no networking experience. I know the glow will wear off soon, but AppleTalk rules.
And, in other news, my stepmother won't stop freakin' harping on me. I want to tell her in the rudest terms possible that I am indeed 34 years old, not 16, and I will live my life exactly how I choose to, without recourse to her martyrdom or pessimism. But I won't, in the interest of living in strained harmony and fictional peace. I refuse to let it sully my exultation at the fact that I figured out the network monster, speared it with my fabulous problem solving ability, and blead it out on the harpoon of success.
My, aren't I bloody minded this evening? I also ate an apple to celebrate. This south beach thing is certainly corrupting my priorities. In the not-so-distant past, I would have had a heaping plateful of fries with gooey melty cheese and ranch dressing to celebrate. I would have rung the town bells, and shouted huzzah for double whoppers. But no, its the glory of an apple.
AND, I haven't talked to HIM in two days. I did get a nice apology, and I know he's busy being re-programmed with techniques and things, but I feel like I'll never see him again, and it's making me irritable. It doesn't help that what he said led me to believe I shouldn't call him, that he would call me "if he could". You'd think a body would make a small tiny effort, even if said person couldn't really talk. Yeah. You'd think.
Every feel like giving up and becoming the good little drone? NO. I still want to throw paint on the walls... good gory red paint.
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