the problem with reading nine dorothy sayers novels in two days is even your depression thoughts start sounding like a late-1920s british female member of the peerage, not overblessed with stoicism or common sense, but with a heart of gold and occasionally very useful in a pinch

“my god, life is positively too beastly for words, isn’t it? i really think i may just lie down and expire this time, i really do. don’t you wonder sometimes how anyone even goes on? i think i shall shut myself up inside the dumbwaiter.”

my roommate just dropped her phone down the side of the couch for the third time in the three months we’ve lived here. neither i nor chinchilla have this problem with the couch. for some reason i’m the only person with the spatial reasoning and engineering skills to retrieve it, which is performed by maneuvering a scarf into the side of the couch with a long knitting needle and using it as a sort of phone rescue sling. 

every time it happens she stares at me miserably for a long moment, like perhaps she thinks i ate it