Everything is fairly nice. I feel I have always lived on my own.

But my jeans ripped in the crotch. I sewed them up, and they ripped again. And then my other pair of jeans, the pair with sap on them that I was saving for the summer, ripped in the crotch. But that was the end of my pairs of jeans, and I am wearing the less-illegal, sappy pair at school before I go to Superstore for some intact pants.

I've written a very good poem.

I am employed. Tim is not the only one who can suggest to a former manager that he be re-hired, and asked when he can start. I can too. I will hate it. But I will have money. Money is a source of more pride and happiness than I initially thought, even though I thought it a considerable source.