Please, please like me.
2006-03-31, 5:14 p.m.
You know how I have perhaps spoken briefly of our water storage tank in the past few days? Well, here it is. Itís made of concrete sections Ė 6 of them Ė which I believe makes it 6000 gallons. Thereís the pump house behind it. Do you have a pump house? Donít you want one?
Thatís a lot of freaking water, and a lot of freaking hand-pumping. Weíre all going to need specially-tailored shirts to hold our muscles on our compound. Which ones are the pecs Ė are they in the front or the back? Those are the ones I want. The ones in front.
Itís blurry because at the precise moment I clicked, Mrs. Beans jumped up and hit my hand with her cold, wet nose. What a scamp, that Mrs. Beans! And rather than retake it, I just said aw fuck it.
Other than that very interestingly blurry photo of the storage tank, I am not going to be very much help to you today AT ALL. I have somehow regained the focus I used to have for work, back in the 20th century before my brain went soft and fuzzy, like spoiled strawberries, probably because I have had an unfortunate convergence of events today that necessitates nuthiní but focus, and have been laboring over a big-ass report today, as well as just saving the world in general, as is my wont. Thatís the reportís title, by the way:Big-Ass Report
Iím sure my board appreciates my professionalism.
So my hyper-focus causes two things to happen that are seriously bad or seriously good, depending on what you think of me. God, I hope you like me. I really, really do. These things are (1) I donít have time to think of anything entertaining to write about, and (2) nothing entertaining has actually happened because Iíve just been sitting here focusing. Please, please like me.
So even if I had had the time to think of something good, if it has happened, I missed it, and so therefore will not be writing to tell you about it.
All I could do is perhaps sit here and think of how many different ways I can convey to you that this is all you are going to get. Can you tell Iíve been reading documents composed by attorneys today, in addition to writing the Big-Ass Report, which causes me to use words like ďconveyĒ?
Iíve used that word more than once today, Iím afeerd, and now Iím using my vernacular defenses to ward off the effects of using words like ďconveyĒ. I have called my co-workers today ďAll you shillrens,Ē just to try to keep it real.
OH. And just in case you thought things might get better next week, tough luck, old chickens. Iíll be in Dallas taking a class that I am aískeert of and have postponed at least once, but now I have to take it for reals, yíall. I have to take it because I tried to cancel again out of fear, but I missed the cancellation deadline and would lose all my money.
So very grudgingly, I am going. And it is going to kick my ass.
Itís a scary class about financial tools, and while I may be a some kind of ďtoolĒ, I donít really know anything about using my financial tools. I suppose Iíll learn, or die trying. If I die whilst learning about using my financial tools, please EB, will you post an obituary for me here? Use the picture of me with my accordion Ė that one always makes me so happy.
I keep telling myself that if I fail (itís a 3-day course with a fucking test on the last day), I can retake it in DC in August. Ah, nothing like the swelter and stank of Washington DC during high summer. And I will get to stay in the hotel where Reagan was shot.
So I might not be back here until Thursday! It all depends on the internet connection at my hotel and how nicely it plays along with my aged laptop. Hopefully, Iíll come back with all kinds of glorious tales (or possibly tails, as I originally wrote, and wouldnít that be a LOT more interesting?), regaling you with stories of my experiences in stupid plastic Dallas.
Or not. Weíll see. It might be good, it might suck, but thatís the chance you take with me. (making a note to get outlandishly drunk at least once so Iíll have something to talk about.
Yíall be good. And if you canít be good, be good at it. I know I am.
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