I am now dressed in black from head to foot (including bra, panties, and socks, because I like to match like that) preparing to drive two hundred miles to go to the funeral of a great-uncle of whom I have no memory. I woke up at 4:51 a.m. for this little venture, and now, an hour later, my hair is still a mess and I'm feeling rather tired. I wanted to mail something before we went, but I doubt I'll have the chance to do it. I also wanted to make a CD, but my burner is acting strangely and I don't know if my dad will let me use his. Although I feel very material, I'm packing a rosary in my backpack anyway, because I need it. Ironically, I'm always complaining about never going anywhere, so now we are going somewhere: a funeral. Now my lament will have to be that we always to go the funerals of our friends and family, and never to the weddings or graduations. It's true. The last time I went to a wedding was two years ago, for my second or third cousin whom I didn't know. She was pregnant at the time. Well, now I must desist, because my dad is determined to be even more stern than he has been lately. I don't know what his deal is.