I'm sittin' here lookin' at the teevee, burnin' holes in everything that I can.

I made my triumphant return to the smog-filled metropolis of Houston, Texas to find that the livin' is, unsurprisingly enough, hell. The fan in my room is broken, my car's air conditioning is kaput and I'm currently too po' to fix any of it. Because of this, I've been driving with my windows down. After dropping my beloved compadre Maddy off (she kindly accompanied me on my epic hunt for the elusive mythical beast known as "Summerus Retailus Jobius," a traditional rite of passage in several countries throughout the western hemisphere), I decided to take action before I have any excuse to be cynical about this situation (yeah, I know what a swell attitude that is--shutupshutupshutup, it's called "Murphy's Law," bitches). Cue a one-man sing-along to Bjork's "Venus as a Boy" with the bass turned up and the windows down at 60 MPH! Woo!