Grounded.  Like the airlines directly after 9/11.  Me.  I ain't going nowhere.  It's beyond my control. Really.  And it ssauks, even sucks.  Due to circumstances, I can't travel for the indefinite future.  No more than this way. Or that.  20  miles.  How many feet is that?  How many dollar bills laid end-to-end?

Because it sucks because.  Because there are Xanga entities I ache to meet.  Real love live Xangeroos oo-oo.  Some of whom I've met before, some for whom I'm still cruising for that eprop bruising.  I might as well be doing the minuet in 18th century China with bonded feet.  Ha ha--Mozart you gotta know I love you .

Hey, but someday somebody.  Gonna wax this world.  Orbit it at exactly 13 feet off the ground.  No slam dunks baby.  Hugging giraffes' necks as I pass them by. Yea!!

Until then, all I can say is, why don't ya come up and see me sometime?!  Or I can canvass the range: 20 mile.  Radius of latitude/longitude 41.52 81.68.  Quite deadly within the inner circle.  Quite lively too.

I am the GrayTest!

and you...you are a complimentary mint under the pillow.

(now read this as if you are saying it, because, you see, I am the mint.

Don't Bring That Damn Box Back!

I know I have a lot of other gizmos whirling on my site, but yesterday, as an experiment, I added back "The Box" and it was the bale of sodden straws that broke my blog's back. 

Hell, I even had to reboot a couple of times to get on to my own site.  I almost blew myself off (*fuck that NFP*) because of the delay. 

Oh yeah...sink my ship.  Bring back the box.  Point the gun to my head and I'll pull the trigger.