...Smoochensteinableiacolishinessensmooles. Partly I'm typing this so I could write that out while Zorro head-butts my arm like a battering ram laying siege to the citadel of Smoon.
So, at the end of a day, amid helices of wood shavings and scattered pinches of sawdust, past the coil of a compressor hose still coated with autistic cat piss, in the shin-high shadow of a promising-yet-unfinished portable bird perch, and as Zorro now presumptuously defrocks my lap despite the occupancy of it by this shiny clicking writing machine, I propose we leave tomorrow (Thursday).
We're not ready to leave, quite frankly, and won't be until late (even for me). With a Thursday departure, we (or I, more to the point) would have 9 days at the Casa de la Ledge ("There ain't no vista and there ain't no view, and there sure ain't no vista of no view") with 2 days up and 2 days back (I'd tell you that you could double-check that if you like, but that would be like telling the sky it could rain--you know, if it felt like it...) Anyway, that will be enough time to do the Atlasian, manish shit I do. If you would walk around without your clothes on and periodically molest me, things would go faster and harder, er, faster and wetter, er, faster and nevermind. Just sayin'.
I can still pick up the van as scheduled, and we have until 4pm to reschedule the West Bestern room in Macon without penal servility. Leaving auwefhbjk (that's Mr. Z's word for "Thursday"--apparently he understands English but rejects its parochial limitations when expressing himself) will permit us to get done all them things we need to get done.
I'm tired. I was upset but I feel better now. Just remember, Kant never could do anything...
