I've got track marks...

...and they aren't from doing drugs. They are from scratching and brusing my arms from moving boxes and furniture and assorted living necessities.

I'm not exactly sure what I did to the universe to deserve such wretchedly hot weather (hey STFU, high eighties is balls hot here), but we somehow managed it. And I figure it's a good test of wanting to live together if we can get through cranky moving stress with pit rings and stinky feet to boot.

Our respite from moving woes was a fabulous going away party on a friend's rooftop in Fremont on Saturday and a lovely Sunday at the Pride Festival, complete with a fountain dance party, an amusement ride, and apparently approving glances from our respective genders (nothing is a better seal of approval than a cute gay man checking out your boyfriend).


Valarie and I post-fountain dancing at the Seattle Center


Now we are faced with mountains of boxes, continuing extrordinary heat, and cleaning up D-Boz's abode. Wish us luck...


Our living room in it's current state