Life. Don't talk to me about life.

There was once a time when I loved driving. Anywhere. To the store, across the state, whatever, there was something soothing about tons of road and my being able to pilot myself anywhere I felt like.

This was really important, since I went to college an easy 6 hours from my parents' house, so there were no light jaunts to be made. These were full on road experiences involving careful time management planning and the judicious use of the question "Can I function in a driver-like manner on three hours of sleep?" (Answer: no.)

But I really dug the whole driving thing and didn't mind the cross-country-trek-ishness of it all. Now, even with a fully loaded iPod, carefully planned drinks and snacks, it taxes my very last nerve just to make the not even 3 hour drive to my parents' new house. What once was a beautiful expression of the freedom of adulthood now just seems like such a gaping maw of time sucking.

I'm sure a lot of it has to do with the new rationalization of time now that I'm gainfully fulltime employed. Every non-working hour needs to be jam-packed with meaning, otherwise you are blowing valuable recreation time by closing the distance on two points of space.

Ranting aside, I had an excellent weekend home with the family, packing up all our earthly possessions into many many boxes for yet another of my parents' moves. This time I've taken physical ownership of all my stuff, minus a couple of boxes of storage, so I'm officially adult-like, in that my apartment is now truly where all my belongings are.

Other things learned: in my absence, my brother still grows, and is now taller than me. I'm still allergic to our cat. The Mavericks still rule. Steve Nash's awesome wiliness is now an acknowledged part of public record. My parents have kept a huge collection of my childhood exploits to degree I previously was not aware possible. And there is nothing better in this world than a deep fried pepper, stuffed with marinated chicken, mushrooms, and cheese.

Other than that, not much went on. All my free time was consumed with driving, you see? Horrible, horrible practice. Where are the transporters? Where are all the flying cars? I was promised flying cars.

Expect later: a retrospective set of entries on my past, because the history, it has flooded back.