SeattleTacoma

In the airport everything seems slow motion quiet.  All the planes outside like weird behemoth cows milling about, all the little humans scurrying around stuffing them full of sub-50 pound bags and weird chihuahuas in diamond encrusted kennels.  I spent five days running about eating pounds of expensive meat, gallons of alcohol mixers, hitting deadline after deadline, rental car racing to cold metal buildings full of greasy people and dirty carpets.  And now I get to sit in a chair with my iced skinny soy mocha and watch these 500 ton metal coffins mill about without a care in the world.

So peaceful.

And now I'm in the sky, typing on a keyboard who's down arrow key recently got snapped off by my archaic 10 pound work laptop.  Luckily I'm a clocksmith with nimble hands and in a matter of seconds that thing is working like it never saw trauma.

So down.

down
downdowndown.

Last week we built up to our first Queer Gentleman's party of the year.  All the usual suspects came in ties, vest, suits, buttons, knits, you-name-it-they-wore-it.  I had some purple and grey nonsense on with a 25 cent hair flower pinned to the lapel; a vision in discount clothing.  Every hour we took a photo of everyone, documenting the slide from upstanding role models to semiconscious layered alcohol monsters.  Choice moment of the night: Taking top-down pictures on a knock-off faux burberry throw next to a nearly inverted version of myself in devin.  While JP and Josh tried to boot me out because it was 3am and I was quote "being a drunk."
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For those not "In The Know", the above is a Harry Potter spell. And that's about as cultured as this post is going to get.

The rest of this post is going to be a) an apology to myself for not writing, b) a touch and go recount of three months of my life, and c) explicit sexual narration of the erotic trist which occured between Minerva McGonagall and I last october. I won't shy away from details, but I probably will replace things like "enormous throbbin man meat" with "cucumber", as in "she had ten cucumbers piercing her from all directions."
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Constellations

Right now I can hear some kind of bug clicking away in the tree next to me.  I don't know what it is, but it sounds like a door creaking slowly open as a serial killer comes in to claim my precious virgin bosoms.  This doesn't really set me at ease because these bosoms are like, primotaglio.  Grade A virgin organic meat bosoms.  Top shelf beef product.  The kind of bosoms that you splurge for at the company picnic because you want your bosom sandwiches to really impress the secretary.
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It's been monsooning here a lot lately; last week I didn't go a day without driving home in downpour with enormous beams of explosion-white light blasting away above me.  In the day time everything seems bright and sunny, but come evening the sky sets on fire.  Cut to me and josh pulled off to the side of the road, watching the pitch black sky all around us while rain drops pelt away at our skulls, me trying my damnedest to catch the megazeus lightning bolts on camera.  Failing quite expertly.
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