Ah. What's this? Oh. Hang
Ah. What's this? Oh. Hang on.
*snap*
There. That's much better.
Anyway: the Relocation Gods have accepted my offering of half a burnt Ballpark frank (they smoke when you char 'em, and did you know that it takes an average of 6.1 bites to eat one?), and have grudgingly initiated the first stage of my transfer to Somewhere That Has Not Exploded. Which is, as Colonel Richard Franklin Babbage declared upon hearing that his troops had managed to massacre 8,000 screaming Hottentots using just three boxes of ammunition and an old boot, a "Vewy, vewy good thing." Kudos to the hated British.
In other news, Ground Zero has remained exactly the same for nearly two weeks. It's surreal: so much commotion, noise, activity, smoke, smell...now all is still. One big concrete-lined hole in the ground, please, and make it snappy! Yes, I want fries with that. Idiot.
We shall see if the Gods bestow further gifts upon me, although they may indeed already be doing so in the form of extra fat about me middle. As it stands now, things are threatening to look up, and we all need that.
Further evidence of the overwhelming power of my own experience: I watched the entire first season of the Sopranos this weekend, which apparently killed John Gotti. I stand in awe of my own synchronicty.
