Just a body made of glass
The contractors have not only demolished our front porch except for the steps, which are currently floating in a sort of diagonal void of wrought iron, they have uprooted almost our entire front yard. I had just been feeling affectionate about the lamb's ears at the bottom of the walk. It's really not the same thing to pet in passing the chunks of cement which used to be our porch's foundations. Nothing had better happen to the two tall yew trees which used to flank the porch and still shade our front windows. Autolycus is currently peering over one of them, sitting on a stack of boxes to observe the concrete-pouring action outside my office windows. Brave cat. I am living in earplugs.
Further adventures in radio theater include Oscar Wilde's A Woman of No Importance (1893), recorded by L.A. Theatre Works in 1995. It was one of the plays I had known on the page for decades and never seen or heard performed—see also most of the works of George Bernard Shaw—and man, that double standard remains demoralizingly topical.
First, I must move more boxes.

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Sympathy. My neighbour was doing something involving a compressor all last Thursday, while I was trying to sleep through sinus headache/headcold (and having not slept through the night). I was very NOT AMUSED.
(I was also not amused when I woke up at 6AM today and could hear someone using a compressor, though after a few minutes I realised it was more probably my central heating *headdesk*).
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It is about a zillion percent not my ordinary style, but I love it nonetheless.
My neighbour was doing something involving a compressor all last Thursday, while I was trying to sleep through sinus headache/headcold (and having not slept through the night).
Eugh. Sympathy in return!
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I do very well with Electric Company font across my ample tits, thank you.
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Since humans look in your size, pfui!