I am blessed by the dogs above with the ability to write about the most mundane, stupid shit and force people (not really) to read about it. You’re welcome. — Management
Just as I knew in my heart going into 2024 that it was going to be a shit show of a year, I knew for over a week going into Monday that it would be a shit show of a day.
Until it wasn’t.
As previously discussed, Friday was Deer Day here in Michigan. One side of my brain was telling me to take the day off so as not to slam my head into a wayward bullet that was unable to stop itself from crossing into the park. And the other part of me was saying, “fuck it” you only have to get a couple miles in, and your week is done. I went with fuck it.
Today kicks off firearms deer season here in Michigan. That means that people such as myself who lumber around the woods in the early morning have to use extra caution so as not to have our chests ripped open by a Super Shock Tip bullet (I hear they’re killer!)
Because Michigan gotta Michigan, the weather has turned from a warm, 50˚ hike on Monday morning to a clear and frosty 27˚ lumber on Wednesday, to a soggy lumber in a steady rain and 40˚ temps on Thursday.
I’M ON A ROLLERCOASTER OF CLIMATE-INDUCED EMOTIONS!!!
As I recently posted, Monday morning’s 6-mile lumber was an unusually warm one. However, a few hours later, the winds picked up, and the temps dropped as if they were blowing directly from the frigid teat of a witch (the one that lives in a shed just outside of Zama City, Alberta).
With that, Tuesday morning’s 6-mile lumber was a cold one and a full 20˚ colder than the day before. Ahhh… normality. Well, at least weather-wise.
After I finished tending to the last of the leaves on Friday, I showered and headed out for weekend provisions. That would be the last time I left the open borders of the Cul De Sac Shack for 48 hours.
No, I wasn’t depressed and hunkered down in The Bed of Torment or hiding out from the roving gangs of newly deputized MAGA Brownshirts rounding up the Libs, freethinkers, educated, and creatives for the internment camps; I simply had no reason to go out—so I didn’t. And it was pretty darn OK.
Was it the worst best week ever or the best worst week ever? I dunno.
I’m not a fan of being right. Mostly because I’m usually right about bad things. But as William Shakespeare once said, “C’est la vie.” (I really don’t know if he did, but he may have, so just go with it).
I’M NOT GOING TO WRITE ABOUT IT.
I’M NOT GOING TO WRITE ABOUT IT.
I’M NOT GOING TO WRITE ABOUT IT.
I’M NOT GOING TO WRITE ABOUT IT.
I’M NOT GOING TO WRITE ABOUT IT.
I swear, not today.
