Wednesday, April 25, 2007

Two days until closing, until notarized geographical commitment, and the excitement is barely palpable, like a blip on a heart monitor in a morgue in an underground base buried deep within the firmament. Come Friday morning, I’m told, there will be a sheaf of papers about yea thick to sign, “yea” being the functional synonym for metric shitload. It should be seamless, though.

I plan on plowing through, favorite ballpoint in hand, armed with the knowledge that an hour of chronic autographing will yield some permanence, finally, and a departure from the carnival of cockroaches, nutjob neighbors, and shystery landlords that has been my moldus operandi, if you will, and–as we’ve previously established–you will.

There’s a computer nook in the new place, a cozy spot from which I suspect we will dialogue with greater frequency, sloth permitting, and with any luck the Information Superhighway shall be accessible next week. I’ve been trying a media diet lately, and initial results have been worthwhile. Understand this is a media diet, not a food diet, because in that capacity my last few dinners have consisted almost entirely of chips. The secret to a good plate of nachos? Lime juice.