reports of my death

After going off the grid for a few days to indulge myself in the Jacobean (to grossly misappropriate that term) task of working for my woman-friends' father in order to buy some of her time, I returned home to find that my internets are inexplicably broken.

So I have journeyed all the way to my own father's house in order to assure you that, yes, reports of my death have been greatly exaggerated. 

I do, however, feel a little bit like death, since apparently taking a six-year break between days of manual labor doesn't make for a smooth transition into non-sedentariness.

You'll be delighted to know, though, that a ditch has been dug and roofing has been removed from a decrepit chicken house. We are therefore two work-days closer to when my woman-friend will be free to accompany me to the great state of Kentucky, where we will eat outrageous quantities of chef-prepared gourmet awesomeness, work the soil of a dear old friend's new 60-acre farm, and spend what will no doubt be a delightful afternoon with one of our most absolute favoritest living authors (whose birthday, consequently, was yesterday). 


Which is to say, "To Life!"


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