• the great pyramids (Giza)


• the great sphinx (Giza)


• Khufu's solar boat (Giza)


• Khan el Khalili bazaar (Cairo)


• Djoser's stepped pyramid (Saqqara)


• the colossus of Ramses II (Memphis/Mit-Rahina)


• al Darb el Asfar mansion (Cairo)


• the mosque of Sultan Hassan (Cairo)


• the mosque of Al-Rifa'i (Cairo)


• the Citadel of Salah ah-Din (Cairo)


• a performance of the whirling dervishes at Wekelet el Ghori (Cairo)


• the Coptic Hanging Church (Cairo)


• a Roman theatre (Alexandria)


• the new Library of Alexandria (Alexandria)


• the Alexandria catacombs (Alexandria) <-- BADASS


• Pompey's Pillar (Alexandria)


• a Nubian village (near Aswan)


• the unfinished obelisk (Aswan)


• Aswan High Dam (Aswan)


• Kom-Ombo Temple (Kom-Ombo)


• the Temple of Horus (Edfu)


• Karnak Temple (Luxor)


• Luxor Temple (Luxor)


• the Valley of the Kings and the tombs of Ramses IV, VII, and IX (near Luxor/Thebes)


• Hatshepsut's mortuary temple (near Luxor/Thebes)

• participated in a roundtable discussion with English and mass communication students (as well as the Dean of Faculty of the Communications department) at Cairo University


• lunched with students at the American University in Cairo (where annual tuition is double or triple that of Georgia State!)


• toured Al Ahram Regional Press Institute, which publishes Egypt's largest newspaper; met with the English-language editor of Al Ahram weekly and discussed issues shaping news media in Egypt and the rest of the Arab world


• visited 2 NGOs (Tofulty, which provides shelter and education for some of Cairo's thousands of street children, and Bashayer, which works to empower undereducated and abused women in Cairo) and spoke extensively with directors, volunteers, and aid recipients at each

[

mood

|

hopeful

]

It's been a frustrating week. The financial aid department has dicked me in the ass over and over, without a condom. I just keep telling myself that in a few days, when I'm cruising up the Nile sipping a cocktail under the Egyptian sun, I won't give a damn.

I'm still waiting to hear back about the editing internship. I was told it was "in the bag," but now I'm not so sure. It would be a great break for me, but I keep telling myself I'll have no problem getting a job elsewhere if it falls through. I was hoping I would find out one way or the other before I left the country, but time is running out...

Speaking of leaving the country, I depart Monday at 4:30 in the afternoon. I'm flying Lufthansa to Frankfurt and then Alitalia to Cairo. Fusion flight. I wonder if plane food is different on German and Italian airlines than on American? I'm borrowing Andy's cell phone since mine isn't made to use the frequency band of Egypt's networks. I ordered an Egyptian SIM card online and I already know my Egyptian phone number. Neato!

If anyone would like a souvenir, let me know. Textiles, kif hash, spices, doe-eyed twelve-year-old male concubines from Luxor... Egypt pretty much has it all.

[

mood

|

exhausted

]

Well. We received a call from the Fulton County Jail this morning. It was a jail employee calling on Nicole's behalf. He said she was trying to reach us but that she was having difficulty because the phone number she was trying (James' cell phone number) didn't accept collect calls. He said that they were wrapping up her paperwork and that she would try to call again soon.

Minutes, then hours ticked away. We received no phone call, no information, no nothing. On a whim, James and I decided to look up Fulton County Jail's website. Holy fuck! You can look up inmates by name and see their charges, bail, and other relevant information. So we looked up both Nicole and Bradley. We kind of figured Bradley wasn't going anywhere, but as you can see, Nicole is supposed to be able to leave on $1000.00 bail. I decided to call the jail to confirm this information, and to find out if we could visit her while we try to negotiate with her parents or a bondsman to bail her out.

That's when another bomb drops.

The operator at the jail looks up Nicole's record. "Oh, well, if she was going to leave tonight it's a little bit late, but she should be able to leave, if she makes bail, first thing in the morning."

I'm breathing a sigh of relief -- maybe everything will work out after all.

"Oh, wait. She's not going anywhere, honey. They're transporting her to Metro State Prison, seems she has some sort of charge from Spalding County that they gotta work out."

What?!?! I mean, I guess nothing should surprise me at this point. But honestly, I thought I knew all about Nicole's past. I know about her misdemeanor charges from her teenage years in all their glorious detail, but as far as I knew there was nothing serious or recent. I mean, we just signed a lease together! The apartment complex supposedly performed a background check -- how did this elude them? As far as I know, you only get sent to state prison for felonies.

Things are looking much, much, worse.

Oh yeah, and it's fucking iced over outside. Which is all well and good if you're going to be home all day. But I'm supposed to leave for work momentarily. There are complications that make this rather unfortunate:

• Georgia drivers go apeshit when there is ice on the road.
• Georgians do not adequately ready their vehicles for travel on ice and snow (ex., decent tires, ice scrapers, etc.).
• Since this kind of weather almost never occurs here, municipalities are amazingly underequipped to combat its ill effects. I'll bet the city of Atlanta has maybe three salt trucks (yes, I'm exaggerating), and there's four million fucking people living here.

Wish me luck.

[

mood

|

distressed

]

Yesterday, while at work, I received a phone call from my roommate James. He tells me that my other roommates, Nicole and Bradley, have been arrested.

Well, fuck. Seems like the cum-dumpsters downstairs have struck again. I really do just wanna slash all the tires on their Jesus-emblazoned family van. They called the cops when they heard Nicole and Bradley arguing at six o'clock in the fucking evening, and told the dispatcher that it was definitely "domestic violence." I don't know all that much about Georgia law, but apparently a complaint of this nature is very different from a noise complaint or a report of domestic dispute.

The cops showed up and asked who was the "aggressor." Well, duh. I could have answered that, and I wasn't even home at the time! Bradley is passivity incarnate. It's always Nicole who starts yelling and screaming. And, when Bradley refuses to acknowledge her idiocy, she starts flailing at him and throwing household objects. This time was no exception, and Nicole had the decency to admit that she was the aggressor. At first. But the moment they slap the cuffs on her wrists and she realizes she is actually going to jail, she squeals, "but what about the fucking knot on my neck?!"

So they arrest Bradley, too.

She damned one of the nicest people I have ever met with that single exclamation. I have seen her bully, shove, and punch Bradley; I have never seen him do anything but take it. James was home at the time, and he, too, is convinced that if the knot on her neck had anything to do with Bradley, it was only the result of his trying to push her away, to distance himself from her tumbling fists. Now we may never see Bradley again.

He's twenty-two, maybe twenty-three now, and he has two bench warrants from mistakes he made in his teens (I think they involve not showing up for a court date and inability to pay monthly probation, respectively.) He pays for these fuck-ups daily. He takes the bus or secures rides from friends, since he doesn't have a driver's license. He can only work at relatively low-paying jobs that don't conduct background checks. He can't get an income tax return because he can't file his taxes.

On the other hand, it's not as huge a problem as it sounds. The warrants exist in his parents' hometown, quite far from the city of Atlanta where we live. He could walk up to a local Atlanta cop and say "hey fathead, I have warrants out in Warner Robbins, Georgia," and the cop would be powerless. Georgia doesn't extradite criminals if their warrants exist more than fifty miles away. Unless they get arrested.

So now I can kiss goodbye the one reliable roommate that actually had a job (he payed for both his and Nicole's rent and utilities!), because he'll be in jail for gods know how long. James still faces trial in March for his pot possession, so he may be facing jail time, too. That leaves me with Nicole. The same Nicole who's been treating me like shit because of unfounded paranoia. The same Nicole who hasn't had a job in months. The same Nicole who will probably hate me for the fact that I called her parents and told them she's been arrested.

But seriously, man, what the fuck was I supposed to do? I sure as hell don't have the money to bail her out. The newspapers have been talking about the overcrowding at Fulton Co. jail for months. I'm sure she doesn't want to just sit there! And our rent is due in three days! Sigh. I was trying to do the right thing.

I've got some cigarettes to smoke. Like about a million of them.

[

mood

|

sad

]

Today is a sad day. I retired my first car for good. The little black Ford Probe is no more.

It was the first car that was truly mine, and the only one with a manual transmission (O how I miss thee!). I spent countless freshman and sophomore hours curled in its back seat when I was too tired to drive home from school, from the bar, from a friend's. Its hatchback trunk fit items I never would have believed possible: floor lamps, a reclining chair, and even a desk, once, with the back seats folded down. One year, it carried me and xellchiri on a road trip through North Carolina, from the foothills all the way to the coastline. It made the hop from Atlanta to Birmingham innumerable times. But I suppose the car couldn't last forever; it saw the brunt of my teenage years and had been totaled an amazing three times -- once in a wrestling match with a telephone poll off Cheshire Bridge, once near the old fire station museum at Auburn and Boulevard, and most recently at the hands of a drunken, jacked-up motorcyclist.

The night of the incident with the motorcycle, I managed to drive the limping Probe to Nicole and Bradley's old apartment. I had to tie various pieces of the bumper and wheel well together with shoestring and network cable, but at least I managed. After that, the car would start no more. It was badley damaged and had an eletrical short. I began debating whether I should put some money into repairing the Probe in the hopes of selling it, or just salvage it for parts and make (maybe) $200.00. Soon, Bradley and Nicole moved in with me at our new apartment about five miles north. I busied myself moving into the new apartment and didn't give the car much thought.

Here comes the bad part. It turns out that someone at the old apartment complex had the Probe towed in early January, pegging it for an abandoned vehicle. I did not make it to the towing yard to take care of this situation until today, for the following reasons:

• I did not learn the vehicle had been towed until mid-January
• I loaned my functioning car to a roommate for a short period of time
• The address listed for McCullough Towing on Roswell Road is only an office -- the actual towing lot turned out to be 45 minutes away in FUCKING DULUTH
• My cellular phone is disconnected, making it difficult to contact people and businesses
• I'm a lazy piece of shit

I ended up allowing the towing lot to keep the car in lieu of payment and recoup their expenses by salvaging it. It probably saved me money, in the long run -- the bill had ballooned to a gi-normous $365.00, which is more than I would have made salvaging the car myself.

That settled, it remained only to remove any personal belongings from the Probe and take them home. I had brought Patrick along to help extract the CD player from the car, and we picked our way together across the sea of badly abused junkers.

Now, I have been to towing lots before. They all leave a nasty feeling in the pit of my stomach. But this place was almost indescribable in its evil. There was no system to the pile of cars they called a "lot." There were neither rows nor columns for the storage of vehicles. My car was sandwiched in the very rear of the lot, all four tires popped, sporting a number of scrapes and scratches from where it had been carelessly slid along the bodies of other vehicles. I had to climb on top of the car adjacent and shimmy in through the window just to clean the fucking thing out.

I found a lot of things I'd forgotten were even missing: two pairs of shoes, several good books and CDs, my Alice in Wonderland ashtray, a Scrabble set. Then, like a dumbass, I yielded to the urge to sit in the driver's seat one last time. I was flooded by memories. I'm telling you, they hit me hard. Amongst the jumble of images that filtered through my head, I remembered how I was afraid to stop on an uphill slope for the first many weeks that I drove the Probe. I remembered cramming the trunk full of sleeping bags and marshmallows for the huge party in Robbinsville, NC, and how I took the curves of those Smokey Mountain roads with absolute reckless speed. I remembered wailing lonely songs out the window at eighty miles an hour.

Last of all, I remembered kicking the driver-side door in fury that snowy January a.m. long ago, and I remembered how the car had seemed to understand.

Rest in peace.

[

mood

|

pessimistic

]

In a surrealist year
                    of sandwichmen and sunbathers
                        dead sunflowers and live telephones
       house-broken politicos with party whips
       performed as usual
       in the rings of their sawdust circuses
       where tumblers and human cannonballs
                             filled the air like cries
                when some cool clown
                         pressed an inedible mushroom button
 and an inaudible Sunday bomb
                             fell down
catching the president at his prayers
                                     on the 19th green

       O it was a spring
                        of fur leaves and cobalt flowers
   when cadillacs fell thru the trees like rain
            drowning the meadows with madness
while out of every imitation cloud
                         dropped myriad wingless crowds
                                  of nutless nagasaki survivors

     And lost teacups
     full of our ashes
     floated by

[

mood

|

irritated

]

when i miss someone, when i want to spend more time with them, i simply tell them. i say, "hey, man, i miss you. i feel like we haven't done anything together in ages. can we do something about it?"

i don't fucking yell at them about it. i don't accuse them of single-handedly tanking a friendship, or being too busy out of malice, or "not trying". the first is impossible, the second improbable, and the third negligible -- even if it's true, the whole point of talking to the friend is that you're hoping to now "try" and fix things.

i love nicole. seriously, i love her. but she has made me feel weird for awhile now. i keep hearing my name come up in her arguments with bradley. it's so silly. i've never touched the boy, kissed the boy, even held hands with the boy. i don't have any intention of doing so, ever. but i do like him as a person (not to mention that i live with him as a roommate), so i do tend to converse with him once in awhile. and, through no fault of her own, nicole tends to seek sleep a little earlier than anybody else in the household does. sometimes it's because she has to drive up to gwinnett tech in the morning, and sometimes it's just because she feels like going to bed. i understand that. and i also understand that she'd like her boyfriend to be sweet and tuck her in when she goes to bed early. if she wants to be pissed at him because he doesn't always come in and tell her goodnight, fine. but it's fucking ridiculous to be pissed at him because he isn't ready to go to bed and sits in the living room with me, his roommate, and watches television. whether or not she has reason to distrust bradley is a moot point. the bottom line is that i have never given her a reason not to trust me.

is it wrong that i bristle when i hear my name yelled in arguments more than once over the course of a week? is it wrong that i feel confused when i hear about events that have upset her enough to call another friend in tears but that nicole has never mentioned to me? is it wrong that i am tired of being yelled at every time she gets cranky?

i just sat down to write her a really (i thought) sweet letter in response to last night's rant about our deteriorating friendship. i wrote that i had a busy schedule, and that while i am home almost every night, i don't always arrive at the most opportune time for "hanging out." i suggested that, since our routines seem to conflict and we both want to fix it, we should schedule actual "hang out" time above and beyond us both being at the apartment at the same time. i even restrained myself from pointing out the fact that just a week or two ago we were spending "family" time together to the point that other people in my life felt neglected.

i was just preparing to sign and conclude the letter when she walked in and bitched about the state of the cats' water dish and litter box. first of all, i do water and feed the cats, and sometimes change the litter box. second of all, i would be willing to listen if she still felt i wasn't pulling my weight in caring for the cats (only one of which is mine, by the way). but she didn't bring it up for discussion. no, she just launched straight into bitching about how it's "fucking nasty" and how even though i am "never home to spend time him(my cat)" i still have to take care of him. well, duh. i am by far the neatest person living here, and when i make similar statements about the state of the kitchen or living room in more civil tones i just get bitchy replies.

sooo, my letter took a slight change in course as i pleaded with her to address me about things in a civil voice -- to actually, you know, talk about concerns instead of yelling.

her response to my letter?

she yelled at me.

I am not all of God, but all I am is God. I am the individual expression of Life unfolding, so my life is God's life. That's why I choose to live the way an Infinite Intelligence would choose to live, which is always with love, peace, and joy.

I attended the Greater Atlanta Church of Religious Science this morning, and they gave me a little wallet card printed with the preceding mantra. The entire experience was interesting, and there were some things that I liked. For instance, when the donations plates went around the minister actually requested that first time attendees not tithe but that they use the opportunity to look around and talk to church members instead. I was also pleased that the membership of the church was at least fifty percent homosexual; fuck those hatemongering Baptists down the block! And, at the end of the sermon, the minister freely admitted that he was just expressing what worked best for him and encouraged all his audience to take what they agreed with and ignore whatever "did not resonate" with them.

But there were other things that I didn't like so much. You know, like the worship of God and all.

"I think," began Mycroft, "that you could have used your vast intellect far more usefully by serving mankind instead of stealing from it."

Acheron looked hurt.

"Where's the fun in that?"

See, I can't help but think our little friend Acheron has a point. Who's to say that an Infinite Intelligence would choose to live "always with love, peace, and joy?" I mean, whoever said the Infinitely Intelligent are also Infinitely Square?

"...Goodness is weakness, pleasantness is poisonous, serenity is mediocrity and kindness is for losers. The best reason for committing loathsome and detestable acts -- and let's face it, I am considered something of an expert in this field -- is purely for their own sake."

Amen.

Well. The disaster that is my living space is in slightly better shape than it was when we moved in back in December. There's still a roach problem that disgusts me and makes me want to throttle the stupid, incompetent fools at the leasing office. But the windows that were missing have finally been replaced, and the faucets work (mostly), and the appliances no longer leak.

We keep getting noise complaints from some annoying-ass neighbor or other. We haven't been able to pinpoint the culprit yet, but rest assured he/she/they will be tortured appropriately. Honestly, we are not that loud. And these fuckwads have called the cops on us three times! The first time was the worst. My roommates failed to realize that you don't have to let a cop into your home for a routine noise complaint. Had they known this key bit of information, we might have avoided a really nasty legal fiasco. Instead, James walked the cop into the living room. The cop, in turn, immediately smelled marijuana in the apartment and demanded that James hand it over. Which he did. All of it. The idiot.

So now one of my roommates faces charges of felony marijuana possession (since the amount was well over an ounce) and felony intent to distribute (since the pot was already divided into baggies). Instead of immediately seeking a lawyer, as I suggested, he went off to Athens to douse himself in alcohol for a couple nights. He insisted that he'd be fine. "I'll just get probation. It's a first offense, and I'll get a job and do well in school."

To date, James has no employment and has been expelled from school. Sigh.

My other roommates are Nicole (whom I love dearly) and Bradley (whom I love almost as much). But ye gods, they are driving me nuts. I almost regret having introduced them well over a year ago, because now all they do is fight. Nicole is 5'0" and Bradley weighs maybe 120 pounds. You wouldn't think much violence could exist between the two. You'd be wrong. There are already broken items and holes in the walls.

Boy can I pick 'em.

Anyway, I finally registered for my classes today. The schedule is awful, which along with my job is going to make it really difficult to find time for everybody that I need to see (my parents, James W., Patrick, JB, Carrie, etc.). But I have slacked for long enough.

And, on that note, it's time I went to work. Go graveyard shifts.

So Patrick is wonderful. I wanted to write an entry praising his unending sweetness much sooner, but I have been so amazingly busy moving into the new apartment, working, and preparing for finals. Still, the time has come.

I was so overbooked the weekend of my birthday that I didn't get to see him until the next Monday. First he took me to one of my favorite restaurants, Mama Fu's, where I made him try the curry rolls (they are heaven on earth). They were a hit. Then we drove to the Crowne Plaza where we met five years ago as caddies for a bridge tournament (it doesn't get any dorkier than that). We have a lot of special memories at the hotel in general and certain parts of the property in particular. I waited in the car and scratched the lotto tickets I splurged on while he "set up." If you know Patrick, you know that means he spent all of about 2 seconds setting up and several minutes worrying about what he would say.

So finally I got down to our "spot" and listened to a wonderful speech about... well, me. Man, is it reassuring to know there are still one or two people in the world who think I'm an okay human being. Once I was all glowy-cheeked, I got to open presents! Real presents, unlike the ones from mom. There was a lot of fantastic stuff, but I have to say that my favorite was a framed picture of a drawing we made together in the sand one moonlit night on the lakeshore. Which, as I recall, was also the night that I sprained my ankle running carelessly in the woods after dark. Oops.

My point is that Patrick rocks. He comes up with the sweetest gifts and does the nicest things so that you'd think it was your birthday every time you get to see him, and then when it really is your birthday you're just overwhelmed by the thought he puts into the occasion. Everyone should acquire a Patrick for themselves. (Good luck finding one! Nanny nanny boo-boo, I got the last one. Neener neener.)

Thank you for salvaging my birthday, sweetie.

Aggh, what a week. My mom made an effort to drive in from out of state for my birthday, so I felt obligated to likewise make the pilgrimage to the family house. That was Sunday. The festivities were horribly disappointing, and I don't care if that makes me sound like a whiny brat. Her idea of birthday shopping was to cruise the vendor booths at the Southern Living Ladies' Convention and buy up all the horrible junk that old ladies wear to bridge tournaments. Trust me, I have experience with old lady bridge players (Patrick, you know what I mean. Also, can I friend you, you fool?).

If you want specifics (and I know you're just dying for them), she gave me a rhinestone-studded fake-denim jacket and a pin shaped like a pair of lips that lights up in red LED glory whenever you twist it around. I suppose I should be pleased. Last year my only birthday gift was a Fur-Real Friends (TM) toy cat. My parents would call me for weeks afterwords to ask if I'd named my kitten and if she was eating well. Fucking morons.

The day before my birthday I embarked on a very "educational" journey to the University of West Georgia for my very first LARP experience. I mentioned this to Ashy a month or two ago when we spoke on the phone, and she condemned my utter dorkiness. Well, it is dorky. But it was kinda fun. In a way. A little bit.

Though I have a vast collection of dorky friends who play every RPG imaginable, I was convinced that my first game should be Vampire, a game I have never even played in its tabletop incarnation and one I know nothing about. I agreed mostly because I thought it would be entertaining to watch and imagined myself observing more than anything else. Boy was a wrong. Apparently, it's an "honor" that some old vampire agreed to sire me so that I could enter as a "ninth generation," which I take to be something lower than an Elder but better than a neonate in the Vampire world. Something like being a teenaged bloodsucker.

One thing I will say on Vampire's behalf: it attracts waaay more incredibly hot girls than D&D ever will. Mmm.

I also went to see this big concert involving Jimmy Eat World, Muse, and Velvet Revolver this weekend. It was not the sort of concert I would have gone out for on my own, but my brother won tickets from the radio station and gave them to me. I figured, why not? It's free! It was okay. Jimmy Eat My Shorts blew, Muse was surprisingly good and had the goofy British thing going, and Velvet Revolver was cool just because of their attire. Seriously. From Scott to Slash, they were all identically heroin-scrawny and all wearing ridiculous cock-rock getups that even involved metallic silver pants and YMCA-style police hats.

I could go on, but it's finals week and the shift is almost over anyway. The boss somehow found out that we break into the office and use her computer, so I definitely don't want my relief to observe me and possibly rat on me. Oh, and lest I hurt anyone's feelings, there was a very excellent evening full of wonderful birthday surprises that I haven't covered yet, so my birthday wasn't a total failure. I will have to write about that next time, though. Over and out.

I've never liked used car salesmen. They've always seemed every bit as shifty as their comic-strip caricatures. Like, there was the time I bought my first used car and the dealership shut down one week later. (I'm sure it was a totally legit operation.) But this just takes the cake...

I bought my current vehicle about a month and a half ago. I say "I" bought it because I'm the one who's ultimately making monthly payments on the thing, but my dad actually signed all the paperwork. My credit is somewhat limited, seeing as I've never owned a credit card. Anyway, I got it from this monstrosity of a car dealership called Bill Heard Chevrolet. They run FM radio spots in the boisterous style of Monster Truck Rally commercials. Now, the car I bought is not a Chevy -- it's a Honda. But when it comes to taking your money, Bill Heard really isn't too snobby about what make of car you drive away.

When I walked into the sales office, the salesman handling my purchase slid me an abused and sweat-stained business card that identified him as Chris "The Rocket" Rice. Now, where I come from, "rocket" is another term for "hot rail", which is this insane method of crystal methamphetamine consumption that combines snorting and smoking into one action. I shrugged this off as mere coincidence. My dad made small talk with the guy, and mentioned that I worked in the hotel industry. You know parents, they can never shut up about their children's lives. Then dad actually tells the guy I can give him a free room sometime. I suppose he was angling for a deal on the Honda, and I also suppose he figured The Rocket would never actually take me up on the offer. Stupid, stupid dad.

I've had to take the Honda back to the dealership for some minor servicing in the last month. Let me tell you, The Rocket is a completely different man when my dad is not hovering over my shoulder. I had to wait a few hours for the service crew to apply touch up paint to my driver-side door (the car had been keyed prior to my purchasing it), and The Rocket supplied a stack of magazines for my entertainment. Dirty magazines. Some were relatively mild (Maxim, and so on), and some were downright pornographic. It's not that my sensibilities were offended (hey, there's nothing wrong with a girl liking porn), but it was a decidedly uncomfortable situation. Then he starts talking about how many days he's been awake and how he's gonna go "do a pick-me-up." Bingo. The guy's definitely drug-addicted.

Then last night, I get THE CALL. At work. He's so twacked out, he doesn't even remember my name and just asks for the girl with the silver Honda Civic. It seems The Rocket no longer works as a car salesman. It also seems that he's lost his home, that his car has been stolen (uh huh, stolen. Suuure), and that he's having to call me from a pay phone because his cell has been disconnected. He reminds me of the "spectacular" deal he gave me on the Honda, and asks if he can stay at the hotel for free. Oh, and would I possibly mind doing his laundry along with the hotel linens? Oh, and do I have some shampoo and maybe a toothbrush he could have?

I am going to KILL my father.