I have only a

glancing idea of why

it’s not Sunday*.


  • (Oh-dark-thirty awakening: Oh. Good. Don’t have to go downtown to the library or to the Saturday farmer’s market.  I can marinate with my suntea spiked with wodker and stew ’till rain. Then my clock buzzed and I put on my glasses and saw The Bose telling me where I found refuge after The Game last night.  Dahayam. Saddidahy.  Go. Brush toofs, clean up. You too!  Worsen bootcamp!)

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