At least I can have hot showers.

This morning I woke up on the train, finished Saving Fish from Drowning by Amy Tan, to start The Cure for Death by Lightning by Gail Anderson-Dargatz. Watched the waters of Burrard Inlet slip past, golden from the rising sun, the cranes of the Port of Vancouver glowing red.

Attention, the doors will be closing in approximately two minutes, two minutes until the doors close, and I always wait a good minute and fourty-five before I even bother contemplating leaving the train. Any earlier and the platform is a nearly unnavigable torrent of humanity, flooding toward the three escalators.

Escalators are for pussies. I take the stairs.

Arrived at work a tad out of sorts, and I guess it showed. I put in a few hours and then left early to wander the streets for a while. Caution signs sit at the feet of the steel and glass of the financial district because it's window-washing season again. I stood for a while on the westbound platform at Burrard Station, letting the wind whip down the tunnel, transforming my hair into an unruly frizz. The glaring fashionistas of Robsonstrasse were out full-force in spite of the clouds. I braved their disdain for a good fifteen minutes.

It was then that I hit upon a brilliant idea, that I would go to school and pick up a paper from the office. I had gotten a good mark in that class, but I wanted to see what sorts of comments had been left for me. The first and second pages were somewhat marked up, mostly with check marks, and then after that I guess he gave up and gave me 95%. I can't really complain about that.

After that, I wandered home to my apartment. My father wandered in around 2:30ish to have a shower. On top of all the job related stress dead parents, rugby trips, band trips, holidays and charity carwashes, my parents' hot water tank stopped working on Saturday, which means they're visiting me more often.

Or rather, they're visiting my bathroom. I have little to do with it, really. I guess that means I should feel used.

Dad wants to know why when he said that grandma was dead, he and my sister burst into tears and I didn't. "You're always so emotionally detached," he said. But I can't think of a time when I haven't been that way. I'm just like that. I don't like having to justify myself.

I need some sleep.