So yesterday, after a delightful little pizza lunch and a happy-birthday-to-readingirl screening of Batman, the parents came up to turn my room into a white space slightly reminiscent of a psychiatric ward, except without the padding.  Lots of white, though.  During the course of packing up Marsha's SUV (named "Shadowfax," after Gandalf's horse--we're all a bunch of dorks) and Al, the Deathtrap Skylark of the Apocalypse, I think that Beardilocks the Viking was trying to knock me off.  It all started when I joked, "Hey!  In a few months we get to move my twenty boxes of books again!"  Then the beatings commenced.  He kicked the doorstop out every time we left the room.  He shut a door in my face.  He smashed my knuckles between a bookshelf and my bike when loading the Marshamobile.  Back at Bellwood, he hit me in the crotch with the bike, and then he knocked a sixteen ounce can of tomatoes onto my wrist, which is somehow not bruised.