Mood: Mersenne twister
[Toot!] Index: 6.2
Communism Bit: On
I'm wrapped up in things that keep me busy, these days. Good thing, bad thing. And I'm getting WiFi—free—from my former boss' house. Just outside, there is a connection he leaves free for the rest of us. We've only talked rarely, him and I, since I happen here at odd hours.
So I missed the impromptu Happy Hour. Merde, that's what the Frenchman said when he found himself in a similar situation. Scheiβe, said the German, if memory serves. Kisiraani, mumbled the Muganda. But we'll leave it all in the all-encompassing cultural-imperialist series-of-grunts-and-groans of these days: shit.
I'm supposed to be putting a story here, by the way, but no time to type it out. It's been fermenting—like the bottle of Waragi left behind by soldiers fleeing an ambush in the battle of ‘66 and discovered forty-two years later—and should, I hope, taste good when I open it. When I manage to shorten it enough. Good enough, I hope, to make some people think that maybe—maybe—I should be paid to write ...
Has he luck?, Napoleon once asked of a man who otherwise fulfilled all other qualities. But that doesn't demonstrate the importance of pure luck. For that, I turn to the drunko who sits upright over there from 2100h everyday to about 2300h (at which time he falls over to the side, only lightly alive).
Who knows, he says, maybe I'll get unlucky and stop being a homeless drunk. No shit.