Apparently my life has three stools.
I'm sorry, I'll say that again. It's this sort of a day.
Apparently, my life is a stool. The stool has three legs. So it goes
Provided you have enough functioning legs, you'll be fine. You don't even need all three. Perhaps like software - good, fast, cheap: pick any two - you can't have all three anyway.
I am currently sitting on the floor studying some broken bits of wood.
I won't bore you with the details, but I will bore you with the summary of the details:
I have no desire to correct the problems with the book I'm working on at work, my love will be leaving the country in less than two months. Then again, she might not. Then again, again, she will, and I really need to get my own place. No disrespect to my housemates or anything here you understand, it's just that I want to be in my own space, one big enough for a bed of conventional length.
In the words of Tom Waits:
"No one speaks English, and everything's broken"