food orgy

Due to rampant hiring at my restaurant, five of my fellow servers and I found ourselves free on the same night. So we gathered at an expatriate cook's new place of employment and did what we do best.

Things I Consumed Last Night at Gramercy Tavern

*two glasses of crisp, refreshing malvasia
*spiced walnuts and cashews
*seven cheeses from Vermont, Ireland, England, Spain, France, and California (my heart now belongs to Humboldt Fog)
*four glasses of an earthy grenache-syrah blend
*three oysters of unknown origin
*grilled baby octopus with shaved fennel
*chicken liver crostini
*quail with ramps and mustard seeds
*one glass of very expensive rioja
*fresh one-inch-thick bacon with spaetzle and the so-hot-right-now fiddlehead ferns
*some butter with a little potato puree in it
*a glass of late-harvest sauvignon blanc
*a glass of muller thurgau grappa
*three desserts, the ingredients of which failed to register by this point
*heaps of compliments from managers and waitstaff about how much they love our restaurant

I think perhaps we might go back there sometime. Like this Friday.

Incidentally, Gramercy Tavern is now both the former and reigning location of the Best Thing I Have Ever Tasted In My Life. Before it was their braised lamb shoulder on the Main Dining Room prix-fixe menu. Now it is the Tavern menu's bacon, which is as thick as it is wide and probably 95% pure, delicious pig fat. A lot of Zoloft prescriptions could go unfilled if more people knew about this particular bacon. (And if there was any question, FAB, it's worth a flight up from Atlanta.)

last night's brush with fame

Scene: My restaurant last night, circa 7 p.m. I am very very busy and the hostess is nowhere near the phone.

Gina: Goodeveningthankyouforcalling[myrestaurant]thisisGina!

Michael Stipe: Hi, Gina! It's Michael Stipe!

Gina: . . .

Michael Stipe: What's your availability tonight for six?

Gina: . . .

Gina: Uh, holdonasecondplease.

End scene.

At least I didn't approach him during the course of his meal and tell him how I saw the "Losing My Religion" video for the first time back in second grade at my friend Sarah's house and it, like, totally changed my life and stuff. I did, however, probably stare a little too much at ol' Mike and Patti Smith getting cozy at their table. Cult Rock Heros, They're Just Like Us! They Eat Panini With Friends!

happy happy joy joy

Summer in New York officially began on Saturday, April 15th. Though it's even lamer to talk about the weather on a blog than in a real live conversation, I have to mention that the environmental conditions were absolutely perfect. I pulled myself right out of my recent funk with several hours in the Hudson River Park watching dogs and reading magazines followed by quesadillas and to-go margaritas followed by an impromptu bratwurst grilling bonanza on my roof at midnight. Today (a little chilly towards the end, but still quite nice) was for walking all over the southern part of the island and buying the first dress I've ever bought that I actually will probably wear more than once. Even though I need some Ben-Gay for my legs and I had to withdraw cash three times at the $100-per-transaction bodega ATM, I am pleased. I am also pleased by these pictures my dad took of my crazy terrier, Daisy, as she attacks the stuffed George Bush dog toy my uncle brought up from Chicago.

back on the wagon!

Well, the blog wagon at least. The other wagon will have to just roll on by with out me, since the time for to-go margaritas and brown-bagging in the park is nigh.

Here's some random funniness.

*The new game show Deal or No Deal is quite possibly the single worst television show I have ever seen in my entire life. And I'm including The View, Joey, and Revealed With Jules Asner here. It is pointless, uninteresting, and insulting to anyone with a chimpanzee-or-higher IQ. Zulkey's intro to the pointless, uninteresting, and sub-chimp-level IQ "models" of Deal or No Deal, however, is hilarious.

*While we're on the topic of awful television, let's talk about the informercial for Dual Action Cleanse, which, I have to say, beats out Richard Simmons, RonCo, and Climatique for my favorite infomercial of all time. If you have no idea what I'm talking about, A., you need to watch more TV, and B., proceed to Four Four immediately. The talk about four-year olds' poo, the "doctor's" sequined striped sweater, and the creepy-looking inventor named Klee. Pure unintentional comedic genius. Of course, it should come as no surprise that Dual Action Cleanse is a substantial load of detoxified crap (sorry, I had to.)

*I will never forget the first time I saw a PartyBike. It was near my old apartment on the Upper West Side, an area typically safe from the tourist nonsense 20 blocks south. Or so I thought. While walking to Starbucks for my morning soy latte I saw an octopus-esque vehicle go by with seven traditionally midwestern (i.e., morbidly obese) people perched on little bike seats. I stared in stunned horror until the PartyBike disappeared into the horizon. If you're like me and need a second (or first) job, PartyBike is hiring! Incidentally, the PartyBike testimonial from Likesta P. has just made my day:

Likesta P. [Ukraine 12/12/2004]
Party bike is like the coolest thing I like ever did. Big Andre drove our party bike with skill, agility, and precision. He executed turns like no other. The whole experience with the party bike and Big Andre left me very aroused and flustered. We met Big A in rockafeller center and he looked stunning and me and my entourage could do nothing but approach this handsome fellow. I had the time of my life and i owe it all to Andre and his electrifying personality and good will towards men. I will definitely go again with my friends to ride this magical bike A.S.A.P!!!!

these family members are all having orgasms

what?!?

At 4 a.m. this morning, I sent the above Easter greeting, originally sent to me by my dad, to pretty much everyone I know. I almost never send email forwards, I stopped caring about Easter when my parents stopped giving me Easter baskets about seven years ago, and I wasn't even that drunk. Though this is a mystery that likely will never be solved, I think it has something to do with the way that Gmail will fill in an address for you after you type the first letter or two. "E"...oooh there's Ellen, "A"...and Alexa, oh and Andrew! "R"...and Raegan and Rhett and Ryan, oh my! I am easily amused.

what happens in ithaca stays in ithaca

And most things in Ithaca stay pretty much the same.

This past weekend Ellen and I made the pilgrimage back to Ithaca, where we found ourselves last year taking life-altering breaks from the big city. In three days we managed to see everyone we planned (and didn't plan) to see. Here are the updates:

Morgan
My former roommate continues to blow my mind with her antics and I love her for it. On Saturday night the 26-year-old law student left her friend's house at 4:30 a.m. to walk home. Ellen and I were a little worried when she hadn't shown up by 3 p.m. the next day and her cellphone and wallet were in our possession, but all was right with the world when she came home in a mysterious vehicle and told us that on her walk home she'd gotten in a car with some frat boys she didn't know and eventually fell asleep at Sigma Chi.



Rob
At our favorite place for beer we ran into the hippie who lived in Morgan's attic. Though his hippie girlfriend had pissed off our other roommate Cody prompting the hippie couple to move to Mexico, he's since returned to Ithaca and is going to have a hippie baby. He still talks like he's been smoking a lot of the "quality African herrrb" that he used to offer me while I was lying on the couch watching America's Next Top Model on VHS.

The Law Students
Every delusion I'd ever had about law school being a potential option for me was obliterated when I got to Ithaca. Law school, or more specifically, top tier law school, is the most depressing institution I can think of. Unless you're insane, it sucks when you're there, and then you graduate and you're either a miserable lawyer or in a miserable amount of debt. At least there's Law School Prom to keep everyone happy! Complete with a $20 cover, non-free drinks, a king and queen, and a sing-along to Livin' on a Prayer. It was at the dinosaur museum. Needless to say, Ellen and I planted ourselves in the corner and made fun of nerds dancing with glowsticks until it got old.



The Regulars
After the painful yet amusing prom debacle, we went to my former place of employment for a drink. The bartender I'd hooked up with is still working there and still says he'll be quitting soon. He didn't immediately ask for money when he handed over our drinks so I just didn't give him any and didn't feel at all bad about that. To my delight, the holy trinity of old-man regulars was there. This includes Creepy Roger who runs between the restaurant, cafe, and lounge like he owns the place, hits on undergrad girls, and occasionally applies for a job there without success, David the Math Professor who is cute and quiet, dresses like a 10-year-old boy, and drinks 2-4 pints of Sierra Nevada until closing, and Fabio John, the physicist with a long golden mane who hits on blondes, talks about his friendship with Carl Sagan and his adventures riding whales in Hawaii, and wears the exact same thing every day, which is a too-small pair of Levi's, a royal purple button down shirt, and a brown tweed blazer.

Tate
Morgan's beagle is still fat, allergic to dust mites, and totally fucking adorable.



Gina and Ellen
Though we've moved away from Ithaca and are now enjoying our Ithaca-influenced lives in New York City, we always like to try new things, Ithaca-style



and we still find great humor in bodily functions.

why i love new york, part one zillion

Work was slow tonight so I got cut pretty early. I was all set to go home and pass out to kill my hangover from last night, when my fellow waitress Natalie suggested we hang out when she got off. I went home and not-so-eagerly awaited her phone call while wishing I'd remembered to buy some Advil for the apartment. She called around 12:30 and, even though I could've gone to bed headachey and hungry right then, I left immediately to meet her at the bar next to my place. Hopeless lush. After several Beams + beers and stilted conversation with a nice very cute guy at the bar, I was feeling pretty good. But I was feeling even better when an enormous man passed our table on his way out carrying two doggy bags from Babbo. DOGGY BAGS FROM BABBO. He caught me staring at them and I asked how his meal was and mentioned that we worked at a Batali-affiliated restaurant. Instantly he handed over his business card from his restaurant in New Orleans along with one of the bags. Instead of the BBQ Ruffles I was about to go out to the deli for, we were now dining on what we concluded were a pork ragu with gnocchi, lamb ravioli, and paparadelle with mushrooms and butter sage sauce. With our fingers. Life just doesn't get much better than that.

productivity

What I Wrote Under "March 27 Mon" In My Little Clairefontaine Notebook
*drop off laundry
*paint living room
*gym
*clean room
*phone bill
*call Northwest Airlines
*WORK AT 5:45

What I Did On Monday, March 27
*eat a bowl of yogurt and granola because it's the only food in the house
*spend two hours reading some dickwad's stories about getting drunk and fucking girls
*eat another bowl of yogurt and granola
*chat with friend on Gmail
*go down to the deli for cigarettes, the newspaper, and Diet Dr. Pepper
*smoke a cigarette while drinking Diet Dr. Pepper and doing the crossword puzzle
*take a one-hour nap
*smoke another cigarette

Off to work!

golden girls

As everyone knows, all Asian people look the same. Apparently, so do all blonde women. Since dying my hair blonder one month ago, coworkers, roommates, restaurant patrons, and random barfolk have likened me to the following:

*Julia Stiles, duh
*Lana Turner (I fucking wish)
*Cameron Diaz
*Britney Spears (I'm going to assume pre-Federline so I don't start thinking about killing myself again)
*Helen Hunt
*"someone famous, but I can't think of who"
*Kate Hudson
*and, perhaps most perplexing of all, Christina Aguilera, by a clearly drunk, apparently culturally out of touch, and most likely visually impaired customer

I've been going through an ugly phase lately (by which I mean I look exactly the same as always but feel like Quasimodo) so I'll take it, I guess. Actually, I'm kind of glad I don't look like Lana Turner, because I would probably never stop looking in the mirror and only ever want to fuck myself. Oh wait . . .

"it's like someone spilled a beer all over the atmosphere"

Alright I lied. Too many good links today, and links are easy. It's kinda like that time a week and a half ago when I got suspended from work and all day I thought I would either get a simple warning or be fired. I've learned that the only certainty in my life is that anything I anticipate happening will most definitely not be happening. Anyway.

*FAB sent me this gem on Gawker about my former apartment building. Now that I don't live there anymore, I can reveal that for almost three years, I lived at 220 West 71st Street, home of the Upper Breast Side, Manhattan's First Breastfeeding Boutique. As if living on the Upper West Side couldn't get any more cliche. I don't deal well with screaming children or elaborate bra contraptions, so I never once set foot inside. I did, however, very much appreciate the construction paper signs that appeared on the building entrance every Jewish holiday that provided a phone number should anyone have a "breast pump emergency."

*The Local Paper is confused. I think this letter is about how smoking is bad. But it's not really so clear. Actually I'm pretty confused too. I think the letter writer might be a mild schizophrenic. The Local Paper and I might, for once, be on the same page.

*Have I mentioned how much I love Salon's Cary Tennis? Oh yeah, I have. Other people's problems plus good writing equals Gina unexpectedly spends three hours in front of the computer. Anyway, more brilliant advice for lost twentysomethings:

That brings to mind another danger of believing the whole "You've got so much potential" thing: Actual accomplishments are much harder than they look. Not only does the world itself seem to resist our efforts to accomplish even the smallest objectives, but you will resist yourself; right now, theoretically, you could do a million things. But in reality you can't even quit your job. That's what I mean. Even easy things are hard to do.

And good luck! Adulthood is not all that much fun. But the alternative, of course, is to be pitiful, or dead.

*And last but not at all least, a call to arms from Dan Savage.
The GOP's message to straight Americans: If you have sex, we want it to fuck up your lives as much as possible. No birth control, no emergency contraception, no abortion services, no life-saving vaccines. If you get pregnant, tough shit. You're having those babies, ladies, and you're making those child-support payments, gentlemen. If you get HPV and it leads to cervical cancer, well, that's too bad. Have a nice funeral, slut.
He almost makes me want to stop being an apathetic waste of space...

*And actually last, Jens Lekman's compilation album Oh You're So Silent Jens is awesome. He's like the nerdy straight Swedish version of Stephen Merritt. I really can't think of any person, regardless of musical taste, who wouldn't like this. He uses "the funky chicken" as a lyric in a ballad for chrissakes.

tomorrow, i'm putting up shelves and then going to work

Like my ability to remain employed, my desire to blog comes and goes in waves. Sometimes I feel it slipping away but then it comes back so fast I get a mouthful of nasty saltwater (what, I grew up around lakes,) and sometimes it pulls away from me entirely, to return, inevitably, at some unforseeable time. Well the tide is very, very low, my friends, and the desire to write about myself or any of the other 1.5 things I ever write about appears to be nonexistant. Now that I've said this, you can pretty much expect a 2,000 word post tomorrow. Although now that I've said that, it's probably more like a three sentence blurb in two weeks about how I still don't feel like writing anything.

not only is it the greatest show on television, it's educational too

If you've ever watched an entire season, err...cycle, of America's Next Top Model straight through on VH1 and thought that maybe, just maybe, it might be rotting your brain, fear no more. While doing this morning's New York Times crossword puzzle I came across the clue "Person from Pocatello." Instantly, I knew the answer was "Idahoan" thanks to the lovely Jennipher phrom Cycle 3. Now granted, I would've figured it out and finished the puzzle anyway because it's Monday and Mondays are easy, but still, I felt smart for about half a second which makes the hundreds of hours I've spent watching ANTM so totally worth it.

the most amazing ad in the history of the craigslist for sale section

Sex Toy ur3 Kobe Tai Vagina - $50
Reply to: sale-143124498@craigslist.org
Date: 2006-03-18, 7:34PM EST


hey i have this sex toy and i gotta get rid of it....its in good condition musta used it like 3 times...wear n tear is very minor cos its been in the bubble wrap for soo long..lemme know...

http://www.ashleysextoys.com/store/displayitem.asp?product_id=gwdj5525-01-

* this is in or around queens
* no -- it's NOT ok to contact this poster with services or other commercial interests

spring break!!!

My sister just got back from spring break. For a while I thought she was dead because she wasn't answering my emails, but then I remembered that she's in college still and it's the spring. Her trip into the mountains of California sure beats the living crap out of Cancun. It sounds so amazing that I want to remember it:

Spring break!!! I told you that!!! I was in a cabin in the mountains with no electricity! For most of it anyway. The first night we stayed at a hot springs somewhere like six hours north of here. Outside it was something like zero degrees, but the hot springs were amazing. What's especially cool is that it ups your body temperature so much that after you get out you have like a ten-minute window that can be spent running around naked in the snow before you start to freeze. We set up our camp stove right at the edge of the springs so we could cook (and eat) our refried beans and tortillas without getting out. In my infinite brilliance I also left all my clothes right at the edge, thinking I'd be able to jump right into them when it was time to get out and go to bed. Of course what actually happens when it's zero degrees and you leave your clothes at the edge of a hot springs is the steam from the hot springs gets on the clothes and the clothes freeze solid. Awesome. That night I pretty much had to wear my sleeping bag. Same deal the following morning, because the clothes certainly didn't thaw out in the night.

So then we hiked to the cabin in the eastern Sierras. No electricity or running water but it was still pretty awesome--there was a propane tank so we had heat and a working oven. We made SO MUCH amazing food, all vegan stuff because of Sophia... like some stews that were among the best things I've ever tasted, and spice bread and cake and banana bread and cinnamon rolls and pancakes... and we drank wine and whiskey in the evenings and had massage circles in front of the fire, and in the daytime there was some epic sledding and amazing hikes in the mountains. We did a day hike on Thursday to the top of Lee Vining peak, which was a 5-mile hike through about a foot and a half of snow (snow shoes the whole way! so badass!) with a four-thousand foot elevation gain. REALLY steep. But the awesome thing is that even though it was hard I never felt like I couldn't do it, and the view from the top was absolutely spectacular. Heh and at the top we took a picture of ourselves naked in the freezing cold. Also very badass.

Then we spent the last two nights camping in Death Valley, which involved skinny dipping (yeah I know there's a theme here) in a freezing waterfall and rock climbing barefoot. We also went to some huge sand dunes, and the sand was like a million degrees but shoes are for chumps so we walked barefoot over them for like a mile. Then we got to the top of a really high one and took a naked picture there too. Last night we were driving a really long time looking for a place to camp, and I think we might have been in Nevada by the time we found this little cave halfway up a big pile of rocks. I slept out on the ground because I didn't relish the thought of waking up and realizing I had to pee and then realizing I couldn't because I was in a cave, but we did hang out in there for a few hours and cook dinner and watch the stars.

So I think that's about all. I just got done with my first shower in a week and I'm thinking I should probably clean up the horrendous mess in my room.

How's everything going now?

Maybe if I read her email enough I'll think I experienced that instead of my own "vacation," which involved hikes to H&R Block, the hardware store, Bed Bath and Beyond, and the Staff Caff.

poke dumprings

God bless Korea. And god bless FAB for introducing me to the wonder that is Korean barbeque. Tonight after eating sushi at Drone's for the first time in way too long, I made the voyage out to Williamsburg to the bar my work friend works at. Another work friend had been drinking there since 4 pm and needed some sustenance, so after a couple beers and a couple double whiskey shots I left with her to get some food. Having already had a solid dinner I wasn't hungry at all, but when a giant plate of raw beef was placed before us I was powerless. We cooked the choice black angus on our table, flipping it with chopsticks, so that it was a little charred on both sides. You really can't go wrong with spicy (very, very spicy) saucy beef wrapped in a lettuce leaf. I was crying, snotting, sweating, and stuffing my face simultaneously. I hadn't felt that kind of pain since the time in high school when my then-boyfriend, who is half Korean, made me take a bite of a teeny little pepper his parents grew in the backyard. My mouth was in agony for at least an hour and I consumed about a gallon of milk and ice water. Apparently I've progressed a lot since then and was able to power through the pain and finish my share of the beefy goodness. I was a vegetarian for eight years and I fully understand the choice to not eat meat, but my god was I missing out.

home sweet sweet home

At long last, I've hooked up the internet in my room, figured out how to operate my roommate's extensive projector television/dvd/surround sound system, and slept in my own bed, er . . . futon, every night for a good two weeks straight. I'm even starting to learn which delis have the best deals on which kind of beer. For the first time in about three months, I feel like I live somewhere.

I spent most of today ridding my walls of the icky blah cream color that New York landlords slap all over an apartment when they "renovate" in between tenants. Ever since that fateful year in college when Ellen and I painted the four rooms in our dorm suite different colors (the highlight being the hot pink bathroom,) I can't live for any length of time somewhere without painting the walls. So, naturally, color selection has been on my mind ever since I moved in here. First I thought I'd just do the same green as my last place since I still had a gallon, but, as much as I loved it there, recent *ahem* events made me want to move on entirely. Inspired by my friend Gael With The Awesome Dogs, I was thinking red, but given the incredibly tiny size of my room knew it would be overwhelming. As of yesterday I was at a total loss, knowing only that I needed bold, yet light, and also warm-toned.

When I woke up this morning my first thought was yellow. Just the word "yellow." Works for me. I once again solicited the help of my trusty ex-boyfriend by bribing him with beer and my roommate's Xbox360 or whatever the latest video game thingamabobber is called. We went to the hardware store to choose a color, and after much deliberation over shades like Harvest Moon and Marigolds in a Field on a Mountain in Switzerland, I picked out a winner. My room is now, according to Benjamin Moore, the color of Nacho Cheese. The fact that I'd just consumed plain tortilla chips for lunch may have swayed my decision making process, and now that the paint's up and, of course, brighter than it looked on paper I'm thinking perhaps the lighter, more subdued American Cheese might have been a better choice. Oh well, as long as it doesn't inspire more cheese cravings than I already have, I think I'll be okay with it.

throw in some tostitos with lime and it's a party


weirdly matching


the next rothko i am not


aaaah

beacon's closet

Today, in my first mode of business as a responsible adult, I went out to Beacon's Closet to sell clothing that I spent a lot of money on but never really wore. To those of you out there without asymmetrical haircuts, Beacon's Closet is a thrift store in Williamsburg, Brooklyn where people go to sell their unwanted designer and vintage clothing and buy other people's cast offs. You show up with your big laundry bag of crap, fill out a little form, and wait 20-30 minutes while the employees decide what they're going to take and how much they're going to sell it for. Then you either get 35% of the estimated retail value back in cash or 55% in store credit. Beyond that, there really is not much method to their madness. Some of my most valuable items, including a pair of 1970's Levi's 517's and some summery shoes from a brand that I saw other pairs by on their racks, were passed up, and then a denim skirt I got for $6.99 on sale at Old Navy was taken. Anyway, once they've made you feel sufficiently inferior by rejecting the majority of your items, they invite you to leave the rest on a rack to be donated to charity. Of course, most people are going to do that rather than lug their still-heavy sack back to Bushwick or wherever. A friend of mine affirms that he has "donated items to charity" at Beacon's only to see those items on the racks later. Sneaky (and smart) little bastards. Regardless of the Beacon's Closet ethics, I must say I'm happy for the extra closet space, $35 in cash, and three used clothing items that I justified were necessary additions to my unnecessarily large wardrobe.

l is for late

Due to a strenuous couple of weeks followed by an overindulgence of alcohol last Friday night, I am now on an unrequested seven-day vacation from my job. Or, as the management likes to call it, "suspension." I spent all day yesterday sulking in my bed until a friendly coworker called to make sure I was okay and informed me that at any other decent restaurant in New York showing up three and a half hours late for an opening shift would result in immediate firedness, and also the 65-year-old Jewish lesbian waitress with hot pink hair that everyone loves was suspended a few months ago for grabbing a fellow server's ass in front of customers. So on the one hand I feel all warm and fuzzy that, like the 65-year-old Jewish lesbian waitress with hot pink hair, people like me enough to keep me around after this infraction, but mostly I just feel like an irresponsible idiot. Oh well, I'll just use my time off to do responsible things like pay H & R Block $90 to do my taxes, and I'll chalk this experience up to yet another entry in the Encyclopedia of the Stupidest Things I've Ever Done.

how to move into a new apartment like a complete fucking moron

After a good two weeks of double-shifts, unwanted phone calls, awful headaches and panic-induced nausea, I am back to feeling like any other fun-loving, irresponsible borderline alcholic. Praise Jesus. Moving into my new apartment turned out to be a debacle of grand proportions. The problem wasn't so much that I got exceedingly wasted the night before the big move and woke up with an angry call from the U-haul man at 8:40 a.m. with quite possibly the worst headache I've ever had and needed to haul all my shit up five flights of stairs and deliver my old bed in a very limited time period with the help of only one boy I used to sleep with. That was almost sort of fun except for the headache part, and you haven't lived until you've barreled up 10th Avenue behind the wheel of a busted up U-haul truck trying to avoid the $150 late return fee. The problem was that I didn't really bother to inform my landlord or my super that I was moving and subletting until the new tennant was all moved in. My super had told me several times that the new landlord was a notorious rich and ruthless bastard. Leave it to me to find out for myself. As I was basking in post-move glory in my new room, the phone rang and even though I didn't recognize the number, I answered. It was my landlord requesting my and my subletter's presence at his office the following day, stating that we had a problem. The words "we have a problem" comprised a good 80% of our conversation, with the other 20% involving words like "illegal" and "court." A little finesse and $1025 later, my subletter moved to her friend's place in Brooklyn and I applied for a credit extension and handed in my keys, and I imagine the evil landlord is sitting back in his enormous leather chair cackling with glee that he can now charge $2000 for a 12 x 12 foot studio. Now I live near my friends, can walk to work, and have roommates whose only rule is "buy more beer if you drink the last one." I think it was all worth it.

not dead...

. . . just very devoid of both time and energy, so much so that this is literally all the time and energy I have to say about that. Some degree of normalcy should resume sometime mid next week.