Whabadang-ding-dong And...Uh...So On
Well chilluns and readers, I suppose it's time to bring this particular phase of the vast monkey cage pellet-dispensing experiment to a close. See, it's one thing to saddle on up and attempt the Great TransAmerican journey, but once you've ridden that particular horse until it drops dead because you've forgotten to water it and after you've staggered to your mom's house on a trike with shattered hubs, you finally end up with the sinking realization that you're pretty much back where you started, plus some added experiences (such as knowing what it's like to shelter in the shade of some trees in a weird cemetery atop a noonday Kentucky hill hoping to God a'mighty that you don't really have heatstroke, then discovering that although there is in fact an outhouse in the cemetery, and that said outhouse even has a roll of paper in it, it's full of wasp nests).
All props to the adaptable idea of crapping in the woods at a discrete distance from the hallowed graves. But such problem-solving is limited in scope! It can't put bread on the table and hardware in the expansion slots! And so it is that on this Samhain I shall high-tail it back up north to the City By The Bay, there to convince some corporate entity that it'd be worth their while to give me cash money to sling words for them.
Should be interesting. Entertaining, even. And hopefully fruitful.
The plan, oddly enough, will once again put me in an Econolodge with my trike for two weeks, possibly three. This time, though, it'll be a purposefully long-term engagement, with proper clothing and everything. There will be resumes flung and interviews attended. Evening gatherings with people I actually know. So I do not anticipate a return of the motel malaise which so often bashed my head with its mute, sodden club.
If'n you're innarested, stick around.
Sod off, otherwise.
BTW: I'm so crushing on Dr. Girlfriend right now.
Ask no questions.
And no, I don't care that she might've been a man.
