Maladaptability.

It's 69 degrees Fahrenheit, 100% humidity, gray and overcast with a threat of rain and such low visibility I can't see the tall apartment buildings across Central Park. And it's June twenty-third.

There will always be a part of me that thinks weather like this at this time of year is wrong, incorrect, and invalid, and that I shouldn't be around to participate in any of it. I'm getting whelmed by the usual waves of I don't want to be here and there's nothing I can do except ride them out and wait for it to pass - both the waves and the weather.

If I knew something to do to make them go faster, I'd do it. But right now, I'm just trying to stay awake.

This is not my day.

Plans to begin moving to my newly assigned room tonight have been stymied by the fact that the bed upstairs is on a four-poster frame - low, with no shelves underneath. I'll learn tomorrow whether or not it's within the code of the Y to switch the beds, or at least within the guidelines, in which case I'll see if I need to buy some storage bins and bed-raisers or not.

I don't like waiting to get my own place, with my own choice of bed and my own fucking arrangements, but I haven't really got a choice about it.

MEET THE MEDIC.

IT'S HERE IT'S HERE IT'S MEET THE MEDIC IT'S HERE.

Not every mad doctor lives in a castle surrounded by villagers with pitchforks. Sometimes they live in the trenches, where there's plenty of spare parts flying around and a pressing need to get inventive with them.

EVERYTHING IS TEAM FORTRESS 2 AND NOTHING HURTS.

THIS FANDOM, EVERYONE, THIS FANDOM.