another peg in the cribbage board of crepitant flavored self-pity
left back in the driveway where the snow was removed
I'm shaking before pouring, laughing more often
today is what is

The 5 week pack of merriment is suddenly shrunk down to 2 1/2 babaloos but no complaints. All the romanticizing in lieu of just existing is spot-on. Futility is the aftertaste of losing your direction. It's stupid-think and not for my taste. If bad decisions were ben-wa balls I'd still be sticking 'em up from former life. The remaining time has been depressurized but questions remain about what's next. The best approach is take what the day gives and what's coming out is soothing and kinda cloaked in a form of schmoozing the details. OK - the outcome may be different from the illusion of corrected complications but these next 2 1/2 weeks won't show that.

Let's wrap this up with a little neologistic gem from back when:

Fight for the Right to Pamplona
Chesley was so crunk she put her jeggings on backwards. She needed to sober up pronto simply because of the administrivia she had to face before clearance to go to Spain. Perhaps destiny stepped in because she automagically became sober as a knob job and ran through that paper work like the Nemean Lion from Hercules. She pledged right there with spirmitment to squarify herself and never again be such a neroid like a sexiled roomate. The road to Pamplona is now paved with KGB and her laughgasm was apparent. And this is prezactly the outcome Chesley visualized in her psychoneuroimmunolgy class last week. Total roxority. rockin' the days