I've been asked to issue a moratorium on writing about robots and I'm happy to oblige.

For those of you keeping track, the roommates passed like trains in the night. Well, trains in the night that shared a U-Haul truck. And not really the night so much as mid-day -- but who's counting?

So far, I gotta say, things are good. The conversation has been excellent (not that it wasn't before, just different) and I now realize how essential a kitchen table is to making a home feel like the sort of place where you'd actually want to take in a meal.

Meanwhile, I've got a pile of soiled clothes that could pass for an Indian burial mound, not enough quarters to make a dent in it, and a thick coat of dust on everything that I own. So what does it all mean?

Hard to say. But that old longing to break free is cropping up again. Funny, because as of today I've lived in this place longer than I've lived in any other place since I first moved away to go to college. Don't get me wrong; I'm happy about that. This is where I want to be living, but is this how I want to be living?

I think it may be time to think about reinventing myself again, but first I have to get around to doing my dirty laundry.