Ah, yes.

Now I remember. The medevac helipad is a mere seven floors above my office.

This may sound like a lot of space, but trust me . . . it is not. Everything in my office is rattling and shaking. My stuffed animals have already leapt to their collective doom twice from the vibrations.

The noise is setting my teeth on edge.

My teeth still hurt.

Stupid helicopters, sitting on helipads for friggin' hours.

Fic reward at the end, for the patient.

Although, for the Prison Break ( SQUEEEEEEEEEE!!! ) fans among you, here's a bit of humor:

I just processed a request for an article from The Journal of Counseling Psychology, and the author is . . .

DRUM ROLL PLEASE!!!!

. . . Michael Scofield!

Heh. In 1983, at least, that was a real person!

My supervisor and I almost fell out of our chairs, we were laughing so hard.

So this weekend, I slept almost all day Saturday, then decided on Sunday that I needed to atone for having been a lazy slug the day before. The Sci-Fi Channel was having a zombie movie marathon, so I put that on and then tore around my house like an overly industrious idiot.

I stuffed a bunch of laundry in the machine and remembered why I love my full-size washer and dryer so much . . . what would have taken me *hours* in the mini-washer at my old place is just a zzzzzzzip! of time now.

Also, I have a totally inappropriate relationship with my lovely, functional dishwasher, which does amazing things like actually clean the dishes. Yay! No more scrubbing by hand!

This could easily be true love.

My garbage disposal is making a strange noise, but I think that might be my fault. Maybe pouring bacon grease down the drain wasn't the best idea I've ever had . . . even if I *did* follow it with about a gallon of boiling, soapy water.

I vacuumed, and then I set about assembling the audio pier of my entertainment center. It took longer than I thought, and my mom had to help me finish it off when she arrived. Still, we persevered and were ultimately successful. Then we went to dinner and discovered a nice little diner nearby. Delaware diners don't look anything like proper New Jersey diners, but the owner was a Jersey transplant and so there was proper diner food to be had.

Foolishly, I then stayed up two hours late. Doing what, you may ask?

Well . . . this.

( Champagne Like Cherry Cola, 4 / ? )

I'm not sure how I feel about this section. It feels expositive, but I'm not sure if I'm happy with it. I guess I'll wait and see what Lorne and Parrish decide to surprise me with in the next chapter before I start butchering this part.