The Mouse (or Fred, as I now call him), still exists. However, upon turning on the oven again, the scratching sound did not happen, and I am afraid to investigate further into my stove. I'm into the dangerous sticking-my-hand-in-to-pull-out-pans-without-looking game right now.
It turns out the trap I had, which I thought Fred had outsmarted, is
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I worked and had therapy. I rode the subway six times today and walked probably five miles. How is it that it's 9 p.m. and I am not really that hungry? How is it that eating has somehow not become a priority to me?
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I am ridiculously sunburned after a fantastic weekend in Baltimore, which included a midnight walk around Edgar Allen Poe's estate (which was especially creepy given the fog.) It was just so relaxing there. So relaxing that I did not talk about work or President stuff the entire weekend, despite being there with the majority of my executive board
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For the record, all is well. My boss may be single-handedly restoring my faith in humanity. He is actually as he seems, we are not at war, he immediately conceded to my recommendations, and I'm very grateful to be working for him.
And now, a martini, because it's been a hell of a week.
I haven't really mentioned it, but I have been feeling sort of off since last Thursday. I thought it was related to having paid $2000 to former landlord, but still with no resolution to the situation, and having anger about that
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