The Dry Week

So, its been a week since anyone has posted anything here. This is not without justification, and not without regrets and condolences for all the loyal friends and lovely subscribers.

This week I got a lot of "No, Matt, its NOT ok that nothing happened to you this week. Go pull some of Neal's bones out. Destroy your house. Go fight crime, or just socialize with a psychopath next door. Start a fire, a riot, or just try to kill yourself with booze on a 'weekday' already. YOU TWO QUIT BEING NORMAL AND POST IN THE BLOG FOR CHRIST'S SAKE."

Well, it was just one of those weeks. Neal was comatose for most of it, and I allowed my body to feebly do its job sober for a change, waking it from a restful slumber with herbal teas and actual real meals. With vegetables.

We still have a black hole. The hot water in the kitchen stopped working, actually, wouldn't STOP working and had to be turned off. The cover over the oven light fell and appears to be disintegrating. It is as though the world has moved on and the fabric of time that holds together all things is slowly unraveling, beginning in our kitchen.

Soon, people will go in there and emerge moments later, but as withered, ancient shadows of their former selves. Plants will die, and the light will scatter in a dreary way that can only be death incarnate.

And you wonder why there's never food in there.

So aside from the gradual deterioration of the building itself, life is fairly normal. For me, anyway, I won't speak for Russler.

I do have a feeling though, that since the first text message I got this morning was at 7:34am, from one of my most successful friends, and it said only "Shoot me in the face." and something about bootleg whiskey that I didn't understand AT ALL (wink, wink), tells me that this week could be a lot different.

I had drinking plans for tonight before 8am. Beat that, bitches.