My culinary experiments have been met with less than enthusiasm.
So far Dad and I have made quinoa and beef stuffed peppers (and tacos for lame people), curried chicken (and regular chicken for lame people), and homemade pizza from scratch utilizing flour ground at Rudyard Kipling's stone mill with NO CONCESSIONS FOR LAME PEOPLE. Mom and Emily are not adventures or fun, be advised. Also they make faces.
Life at home so far is not unlike my last week in London, in that there is bloody nothing to do and the flowers are nice. Emily proposed we trade lives but it would never work: I'm far taller than her and currently sporting trendy short hair. The librarian at the local public library recognized me, remarked upon my absence, and placed requests for me for all the obscure British authors I'm now into. My job prospects are a shade brighter than bleak but only a shade and feature the new party store which has taken over the balloon business from the old party store. Why is one of my most marketable skills making balloon bouquets? Is that weird?
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