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Hella.

It’s become quite apparent to me that Garth’s brother, Richie, is insane. He’s staying here in the Pit O’ Boris ‘n Garth for a couple of nights, which is a gruelling addition to having to work with him on Saturdays. Besides the fact that his speech is frequently incomprehensible, he laughs nervously after everything he says, and has delusions of grandeur: he also has no inner monologue.

Until I met Richie, I assumed that the phrase “no inner monologue” was restricted to Austin Powers: International Man of Mystery, but Richie is living proof. He is incapable of thinking something without verbally expressing it. The kind of minor thoughts that you and I take for granted? He says them. Watching a movie with him is torture, and I can only imagine what watching an intelligent movie with him would be like.

Remember how I mentioned my family’s nomadic tendencies? Well, my parents are moving house. That is to say I am also moving house, since I still technically live with them. Not to the close-to-Fiona-and-the-high-school house that I mentioned though, to another one which I believe has heated floors. Heated floors? I mean, what the fuck? We live in Australia, people. “Cold” is 15 degrees, and “freezing death” is 3 degrees. Heated floors are about as necessary as Matrix sequels, but I’m quite confident that they played a major part in my Mother’ decision to choose that house, since she feels the temperature like no other human: never temperate, never tepid, only in extremes of hot and cold. It’s quite amusing to see her playing FreeCell in mittens, a scarf and three jumpers.