So I'm getting pretty drunk.
This seems to happen about once a week now, pretty regularly. I get the tickle to sit in my den, drink the 800, and do what I do. She's cool with it. I'm a lucky man.
So what does it mean to "do what I do"? See, that's the problem, Hooz. Not very much of it involves advancing our goals or making me a sexy prize to parade in front of her illustrious group of friends and familial relations.
See, our goals, at the moment, involve fixing up this wartime shitheap we bought a couple of years ago for a modest profit. Ultimately, we want to bust out of rust belt v2.0 and get our Alberta on. This sounds easy enough, and it probably is, but it takes a little more elbow grease than I'm currently squirting.
Right now I'm wheeling my chair over to my beloved crusty Heintzman & Co junker piano every few minutes to fill in the blanks on an experimental little piece of shit I started when I was renting a tenor sax. For all you kids out there, if you start renting a sax to fart around with music, don't bring it back to L&McQ and say you don't want it. You still want it.
Don't even ask about submitting this shit to MFC. This shit is straight evil.
What I'm actually doing right now is straight spam fodder. I'm on the cusp of turning $1.10 of interweb poker money into $400 of straight up hooker-and-shnei grade canadian currency. Final table big stack type shit. Wish me luck yo, I've got the hooker in mind.
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