A large, angry, motorized wharthogg seems to be stomping around above my head. Either that or there is construction in my attic.
My attic: historic home of leggo cities, my 9th grade cell project, a small army of stuffed animals, and too-cool retro suits that my dad would probably like to forget he has.
All gone now. The pink shag carpet, plywood covered walls, windows, unused sauna--gutted. Stuffed animals and cell project relocated to the attic refugee camp that once was my room, and soon will be a home office, or something of the sort, once the motorized wharthogg quits the attic and my parents move me up there. T'will be odd--I've lived in the same room for most of my life--but given the fact that I'm pretty easily adaptable, and that I don't live at home really anymore, moving to more spacious digs in the attic probably won't be to gutwrenching.

A note to readers: spell check broken, the true atrociousness of my spelling now bares its ugly face. Avert your eyes, or send corrections to Ari_Johnson@brown.edu. Thanks and God Bless.