I figure everything we’re going through in our extended stay here is like intensive training for wherever we end up, an exercise in having nothing left to lose and not giving a f!@#.  So we should be in good shape, come what may, eh?

It feels like a half-death, or maybe it’s a half-life?  It takes a lot to make me cry, but I feel on the verge of it all the time now.  At any rate, where there are flowers and beer, it can’t be entirely hopeless, right?  Or is it like a wake?

I did finally get to finish mowing the lawn without disruption, so there’s that.