This is basically the last three months of my life, right here. Thank god for good friends who are easily prevailed upon, even when they don’t think I’m prevailing (like certain meteorological conditions, I am always prevailing, only sometimes you’re so used to it you just don’t see it any more). The latest is Lydia volunteering to do my taxes and passport application, which is pretty damn boss of her, as they are both one of those things I keep meaning to get around to, by which I mean my life would be so much better off if I didn’t have to do them or I just like died before I had to find my T4s and my birth certificate, which I’m sure is somewhere in all of the boxes I moved unless the guys just crumbled it up and threw it on the floor but I doubt it. Then again, why do I? Because…see above thousand words.
icecoaster only lasted five months. winecoaster lasted a month. We shall see how long hobocoaster lasts. I have been heartened to note that God has been saving the Lotto 649 jackpot for me and it’s up over 40 million now. If I win I shall still be hobocoaster, but with an entourage because I’m bloody sick of carting this laptop around. Maybe I’ll get a laptop so small it fits on a wristwatch; yeah, that’s it, because only the rich wear wrist watches anymore, to show people they’re too important to carry cellphones. Oooh, and being rich would really suit my friends who love to talk on the phone, because then I’d hire people to answer my phone and they could talk to them and all complain about me to each other and I’d even pay their long distance bills, and everyone would be happy especially me, for then I would never have to answer the phone. Not that I do now, but somehow it’s leaked out that I have one and haven’t bought the actual, like, phone plan to turn it from an iPod into a phone yet somehow people don’t realize that the reason I don’t do this is not simply that I’m cheap (tho I am, yea verily, very, very cheap) but because I do not wish to receive calls. Ever. From anyone. Under any circumstances.
The lottery people, I assure you, will write. They will email. They will text. And, if they don’t, someone I know will surely say, “hey, didn’t you see the numbers on the lottery? Didn’t you say God owed you? How’d that turn out?” and then they’d never live it down when I read out the winning numbers unless I’m in my old neighborhood or the pubs my friends tend to favour, as neither locale is conducive to personal safety when one has just announced one has a winning lottery ticket on one’s person (and yeah, sure the Barking Parrot is in an expensive hotel, but it’s still full of people pining away for Slack Alice’s, whether because they miss it or because it burned down before they were old enough to audition their pole dance routine there).
But where was I? Oh, right, how was your week?