« on: April 12, 2014, 01:42:22 am »
I am typing now, and I am puzzled by the odd feeling that every one of my beard follicles may have grown to the size of a mechanical pencil lead. It is an odd sense, one of forboding mixed with a sick anticipation. The records and notifications of that horrible squakbox that passes for my cellpohne tell me you have attempted calling. I will assuredly answer / return calls when not pressed by the necessity of putting hernia repair survivors to the sword or running through decepit Fall rIver buildings wielding odd implements of brass and bone. (They won't let me build weapons sober anymore. Something about them working TOO well) These things never get over at a decent hour - hoping to ring you back Sunday.
I am vexed. We are all vexed, really. I long with sick abandon for the prosaic beings I work with to know the TRUTH of who exactly is sitting next to them. The manager got a whiff of it. Got smart and swipped the cell phone left out on my desk, only to read a speculative chat about balls between me and Cram. I got a full apology between his sobs.
Has anyone bothered to let EoC back into the country yet? Not that that would be SAFE in teh common sense, but ethically we really ought not to leave him out there too long. I keep envisioning him amassing a horde or machete waving fanatics and cutting a caper to cuban jazz as the inevitable junta places him in power.
New Hampshire, for some reason, has SHUT UP. I blame Suu. The land of "Live free or Die", must be the land of "Quiet or she'll hit us again!"
Leln almost got to axe and emo vampire with a chair. Really - I m not bullshitting that part.