Your leaking thatched hut during the restoration of a pre-Enlightenment state.

 

Hello, my name is Judas Gutenberg and this is my blaag (pronounced as you would the vomit noise "hyroop-bleuach").



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   Thanksgiving eve in a pandemic
Wednesday, November 25 2020
It's an indication of how good my life is that today the major thing that was gnawing at me was the fact that I'd left two things at the Brewster Street house when I'd left yesterday evening: one of my pocket-sized foldable, rechargeable LED lamps (the closest thing I've found to a reliable flashlight). And a $5 container of superglue. At any other house, that wouldn't be a big deal. I'd just get them on my next visit. But at the Brewster Street house, everything gets lost or broken. Where else would the plastic cover for a 240 volt dryer outlet disappear? That actually happened at the Brewster Street house. I would expect my new citalopram regime to make me less obsessive about such minor setbacks. But no, there's something in me that makes me dwell on them.
I'd been hoping Alex wouldn't bother me too much today, the day before Thanksgiving. Our company has the relaxed vibe of the customers we work for, who work in cramped, cluttered municipal offices and most certainly leave early on the day before a holiday. But Alex was still trying to get me to answer complex questions raised on the morning's conference call with the Ukranians. I'd been procrastinating all day, and for once he was actually noticing it.
But at a little after 4:00pm, I climbed into the bathtub and had a nice soak.
When Gretchen got home, she and Powerful spent the evening making dishes for tomorrow. Because of the still-ongoing pandemic, only us three would be at our Thanksgiving feast. But Gretchen wanted to make it special, because it was to be Powerful's first Thanksgiving as a free adult.


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