I'm sitting on a street corner that's probably covered in HerpAIDS with a purple cat, watching the place I've lived for the last five months burn to the ground after it oh-so-politely packed up all my things in a creepy storage container that took design advice from Charles Manson. I've been beaten by an unruly mob in pre-communist Russia, turned green with alarming regularity, and stuck in the middle of a room full of mannequins and bells. Nothing surprises me anymore.