48616 words

Took Jeff to lunch – I was thinkin’ burritos but we had to pass Cockney Kings Fish and Chips to get there and reader, we turned left at fish. I had the halibut salad – six oz of fresh halibut grilled not one nanosecond longer than necessary over a bed of fresh greens, and Jeff had halibut and chips but reserved one piece and the cole slaw and some of the chips for a second meal, which was downright thrifty of him since I would have gone through those two pieces of fried fish like that darned Tasmanian Devil.

I’ve been editing – mostly – today, but added some clarification to the chapter ‘bathroom break’ so that’s pushed the word count up a bit.

Paul was in a glider crash last weekend. He’s got a yellow bruise on his left sphenoid bone but was otherwise not injured, and at no point lost consciousness or was concussed. The pilot was not injured at all, apparently. The aircraft’s a write-off, and it was a club plane, so insured, but club insurance will suffer. That’s as much as I wish to recount.

However, that news pales, as far as Paul was concerned in telling me, with Tina, one of Janice’s cats, needing to be euthanized in consequence of cancer last week. Paul was openly distraught and saying that he had no idea how attached he’d grown to her (he lives in Seattle half the week, so I’m not entirely sure how this could have come as a surprise – hominids get used to the people and things and critters they live with, after all) and that he could have been better behaved toward her. Now I’m the ex, and I be crabby in some respects, but honestly that seems like a prompt from the universe to get on the phone and talk to people you miss, and make plans to seem them as you haven’t for a while. Whether Paul will see it that way remains to be seen.

Me? I have been calling my friends since I heard about that.

I am mad at Jared Padalecki and it’s time he went to rehab. Punching employees of your own bar while hosed? Fucksticks.

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Allegra

Born 1958. Not dead yet.

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