I spent this weekend being of absolutely no use to anybody, as usual. Only this time I spent it wallowing in the uselessness of my choosing.

First thing, I woke up and played Diablo for two or three hours. Then I went to get food and had my very own 8-episode Alias marathon. That's around six hours worth of Alias.

I love TV marathons, though these days I can't help but imagine %%diary-floodtide%%'s disapproval.

I also wonder why it is that even after watching Jennifer Garner play around on various soundstages for half of the day, it's still my own life I dream about.

Do you know how scary thunderstorms are when you're living in a glorified tin box? There was a tempest last night, and one of the strikes didn't just make my mobile home shake, it made it jump. I blearily thought New Port Richey was being invaded by Communists a la Red Dawn and went back to sleep until the next strike hit even closer. When I woke up a few fronds had fallen off the towering palm tree next to my driveway onto my lawn.

My parents called this morning, crying. I asked what they were crying about. "It's just so good to hear your voice." I guess Dad fell and broke four ribs the week before he had to go to a conference in London. Mom was at a conference in Cardiff when it happened, so when he tried and failed to make it through the weeklong stay, she came home to help him out.

They're not doing well. Dad was crying on the phone, which is unusual on three counts: he hates phones, never calls, and never cries. As they told me about their plans for moving back, Dad said, in between sniffles, "You don't know how much we miss you," and then lost his composure.

I wonder what's wrong. They're not telling me something. Whenever I ask what's up, they evade. Somehow I'm not worried. It's like they're strangers. That makes me sadder than anything.