Update: the pressure builds.

 

Everyone who's here likes to keep my things pressed up against them. They figure if I end up making an announcement which involves a name they have trouble remembering, I may show a bit of sympathy and request that they fold one or more of my washcloths and press even harder. During my time in the capital, it has never ceased to amaze me how people act in a falsely assured manner. Now that walking itself is set to be renewed via a yearly plan, I'll ask the shorter ones if they could begin to start deciding how they'd like to alter their personal current to suit the reigning 'spirit of the times'. We've been told by more than one of them that the way I pronounce active verbs gives them a feeling like no other. I will refuse to honor their digital scope if the rumors I've heard them spread about me turn out to be true. This is only the case in a way which was never intended. Nonetheless, I won't stop trying until I've exhausted every option left on the table. And, by the way, the table itself is made out of a very hard wood. Oak, I believe.

Concerning my duffle, no one could ever guess what I keep in it unless they've got what is called a 'sixth sense'. They would have to, because if one or two of them are sometimes caught near a ledge, we'll have to remove their tags and have them swim in front of us while holding a registered mat. Only the brown ones have shown us a new way to remain upright, even as their body-mass index surpasses any reliable threshold. It hurts when you know the truth, but someone has to tell them that fleeing an altercation during a doomsday predicament is a good way to harvest all your good feelings without standing on a ridge made entirely of dessiccated wads. Don't count on any payment. It still hurts.

So, you've been made to think recently of the time you motioned to us while we stood in the porchlight during a very calm fortnight in California. We had been spotted rehearsing a soaking we were about to receive at the hands of a trio of older farmers who cruised in from the Valley once I'd given them the crucial 'OK'. It was all about how many signals I could send and who (if anyone) would (or could) still be listening. I already knew that the darker haired perpetrators could be counted upon to wrestle something out of my wife's guilty hands while she was still a 'whip smart' math major. No one who had known her before I was born would ever have thought she would amount to the 'hill of beans' she turned out to be. I'd risk everything to keep her behind a line drawn by a grown-up. In case anyone has any doubts, please be aware that she's still racking up points. Majorly. Fuck.

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