My short-term happiness will be determined by what happens in the next twelve hours.

Alright, I'm about to have a bi-polar moment here, but just bear with me.

In twelve hours I will hopefully about to get drunk because this week will have finally ended. And I'll be happy. I'll be done with everything I had to get through. I will have heard from my parents and my dad will be fine, and I can go ahead and buy a plane ticket to Washington so I can go visit Laurie and Harrisonburg in March instead of buying one to Richmond to go home.

And I'm getting my movies back tonight, which will be awkward, because I made plans to get them thinking I was fine (I felt fine! Whatever! No big deal! I'm OVER it!) and now I think that I'll end up just being really angry and trying my best not to be an asshole. Even though I don't think I should feel guilty for being an asshole.

I've never had to do one of these picking-up-the-stuff-I-left-at-your-house things before.

But, whatever. I don't even care, because I've got more important things to think about. And once I get the inevitable (optimism, my friends, is my new ally) good news from home, I can ease into this weekend knowing that the worst is over, and that next week will be great, and so will the week after that, etc. I haven't the time or, honestly, the energy to stress over bullshit anymore, and the sooner I can get through it all, the better. So there.