Alas, I am so busy, Dear Internet, that I must confess that while I think of you all the time, it is only now that I can spare a moment to write. Of course, I have nothing much to say, my time filled with the empty clock-calories of modernity.
Ever wonder how that value-priced gasoline brand can price a dime under everyone else? They only allow ATM cards and tack on 45 cents, which doesn’t sound too bad until you find that the pump you’re using has poor flow and no pump-lock, so you’re forced to squeeze it with all your carpal-tunnel might until it turns off and won’t restart at 5 gallons, for a nice 9 cent tack-on to the stated price of X minus 10 cents per gallon.
Speaking of which, my relatively well-maintained (pay no mind to the fender there, kiddo, move along now why doncha) 1993 Toyota Camry gives fine, 30-some-miles to the gallon driving. That’s been just about a fill up every other week since I started driving to work. Now that a) we’re in the new location, well to the north of my old apartment and b) still moving and therefore driving back and forth betwixt job, apartment, and house several times a day, today was the first time i ever had to try to fill the car up due to an empty tank the day after I had filled the car up due to an empty tank.
For some reason, my interim internet solution at the new location disallows https: connections, a distinct inconvenience during the holiday season.
No tree yet, but tomorrow, I think, we’ll get one.
The aprons of the new property appear to consist of pure Mississippi gumbo, cleverly disguised as oil-stained gravel admixed with cedar needles.
Simon is still in deep hiding, having crawled inside an unsealed wall and then commenced to howling. He was coaxed out.
No first fire in the fireplace yet. But this night I did succeed in crafting a Martini. Some sort of lounging device must assuredly await.