Blame Florida.

Room service stops at 10:30. Whoever heard of that? And I'm too lazy to get my butt over to the somewhat ominously named Pleasure Island for Disneyfied food, so I am sitting in bed eating my leftover almonds. I am ravenous.

Now granted I might have gotten here with plenty of time for snacks if I hadn't gotten horribly lost on my way from the airport, and granted I should have stopped at one of the several supermarkets I passed while being horribly lost, but still and all, I'm cranky.

The Disney resort seems kind of awesome in its spectacleness and kind of terrifying. It scares me. It is replete with searchlights, and somewhere, underneath the suburban glitz, the searchlights are seeking out other dorks who are here for the Unicode conference.