not dead, just sore

ow. I need to practice, and work out more, giving a massage leaves my client relaxed and me achy. I'm the butchest one in my class, which includes a long-haired gangly Nice Guy from North Carolina, a statuesque blond from Iceland, a Navajo girl who grew up off the res in New Jersey, of all places, and a Japanese boy who speaks very little English. It's the most challenging thing I've ever done. I have to learn how to learn in a non-book-centric way. For once, I'm not automatically the head of the class without trying. I'm enjoying it. It's kind of refreshing.

Live in the desert is good. I dumped the ice cream shop for a cafe and am now the hip barista I always wanted to be. I do not, however, speak Starbuckian, so if you come in asking for a double tall frappacino, I'm just going to look at you blankly. I know how to make real coffee, not spiked milkshakes. (Starbucks is CRAP, people! When will you see the light! It's coffee for people who don't like coffee!)

My housemates are still wierd hippies who drink fungus tea (you don't want to know) but I like them just fine.

There are more things to talk about, but I'm afraid I'll have to leave you wallowing in suspense.