  So, as of the last three days, I've had songs sung by kids in french stuck in my head. Since it's french, though, and I don't speak french, the soothing thing is that the songs can't stay there very long. The boys are all right, I'm sort of cranky, and that house is zarking cold. But, all in all, the work situation is satisfying. Still overwhelming to a certain extent...but easier to deal with than, say, retail. Our lock was frozen last night. My poor Lucas, he waited for the usual nine hours for us to come home, then we didn't even walk in the door; we went away again. We came back to try again, and then Kurt came back, and still, no luck. Thanks to the lovely Misscriss, we got boiling water, dumped it over the lock, and then dried out the lock with a hairdryer.
Misscriss also took us to pancakes at an aquaintence's house, and that girl makes the BEST pancakes on planet earth. That's right, the enitre globe. It worked out all right, but I was tired, and just wanted to bathe, I had little interest in pancakes, Kurt's and Sarade's endless discussions, but it was really nice to be out and about despite the fatigue.
Been thinking, over and over, that I need a career. Like i said, the job here doesn't suck, but more money is required, and I would, ideally, like something I can do for an extended period of time. At least, I think I want that. Or maybe, I want to want that. A person died at Acadia a few days ago. (Let's call him CJ) I had a unique relationship with him, he stalked me for four months. Called 7+ times a day, came to my house at ANY hour, and was vaguely creepy. I had a like/creeped out feeling for him; he had a lot of brains, but they were skewed. Conspiracies were on his mind frequently.
He was also delusional, he mentioned on several occasions that he was the decendant of the One and Only Jesus Christ, who did not, as popular thought would have it, die on the cross, but led a full and rich life with the reformed Mary Magdalene. Offical reports say that CJ died from exposure. He, evidently, went for a walk. He didn't drink, so I am sure he didn't pass out in a ditch.
I am also sure, as are the authorities, that it was suicide. During my aquaintence with him, he had moments of clarity. During these, his depression was consuming. I have the sense that he had a little more than his average dose of clarity that night; but speculation is dumb; I'm just trying what everybody else is trying to do - explain. I don't exactly miss him, exactly. He scared me on occasion, annoyed me on others. We did have some good talks.
I remember him sitting in my kitchen, telling me that it was possible to overcome depression, as he did it himself, years ago. I remember him walking out of a classroom that required a little more computer lab time than was usual, and leaving a note on the prof's desk: "Machines don't give us grace. " I remember not being able to sleep, and he'd come over at four am, because he saw my light on. I remember trying to get him to leave once by talking to another girl about feminine hygeine. He told me a lot about how the Vatican was entirely evil.
I remember the few times he propositioned me. I remember him staring at my boobs. I remember him knocking on my door at least three times a day. (I should have been in class, but I was busy feeling vastly sorry for myself). I remember his obssession with the british military, and how that was the focal point of his existance; he wanted to be an elite assasin. He frequently told me how he'd go, have training, and come back to say hi, by ninjaing his way into my place, or dropping from a parachute while I walked to class.
He would always dress in fatigues, green or camo, wore heavy black boots, had loooooooooooong hair, and a goatee. Maybe I should have realised that something was up when CJ, the warrior, cut off his hair. No, I don't miss him, not exactly. But I am sorry he's gone, and I'm sorry he had no one to talk to about his hurt. I'm also sorry that his family said it was a relief he was finally gone. And I'm sorry that I feel a measure of relief that he's gone, even though his frequent communiques and visits had all but ceased when he discovered I had gotten married. I'm sorry the world wasn't a place he could better fit. And, of course, I'm sorry I wasn't as nice as I could have been to him, although that sentiment makes me sorrier; knowing what would happen to him would be the only reason I'd be kissing his ass. 
