Crack.

I have been issued and formally charged with the duty of witnessing and watching the entirety of Firefly and its subsequent film, Serenity.  I have also poured myself perhaps the only wine I have ever found to have a tolerable lessening of rubbing-alcohol smell in a generous splash in some ice'n'orange juice, which is why I'm a little over-formal.

Gorramnit, I did not need a new addiction.  But twenty minutes in, and a whole lot of internet culture has just been explained to me.  That's been bothering me for *years*.  And one episode in, and I am flackin' *hooked*.

This is fifty times better than Buffy, which I always thought was kind of cute in idea but dull in execution (although I'm told I should hang in there until Spike.  Have a great fondness for well-written Spike.)

Huzzah. Not.

So, Daddy's been a bit loopy the last day and has had lack-of-progress gut-trouble for several more.  We finally get the ambulance in, and *then* he wakes up enough to refuse.  They tell us (nicely as possible) that the next time they're out here they're going to call property standards on us.

So my dad's sick (and being. DIFFICULT.) again, a bunch of large strange men got to tramp through my house seeing how I lived and judging (as nicely and helpfully as possible) it, Dad's going to be pissed at Mom again for trying to bring him in, and I get to really buckle down and excavate our 25-year accumulation of packrattery.  Again.  While still hunting for a job or comission work that'll maybe cover my student loans.

They're coming to take me away, tra la, they're coming to take me awaaaaaaaaaaay...