Post and run
I am a whipped dog. Got up behind the eight ball (not the drug eight ball, just the metaphorical one), drove down the 99, and just couldn’t put it together. Felt scrummy. Couldn’t tell my Vespula from my Dolichovespula, if you can grok that. Saw some gossip item about Kwim Lardassian dropping $100K on handbags in France, and didn’t even give half a shit, much less one or two. Supe took one look at me and said: “Why’nch you go back home to bed?”
Drove up the 99. Almost to Galt, realized I left my phone back at the office. Drove back. Got it, drove up to Galt, got gas, realized why I never stop the car in that town or any other one named after an Ayn Rand character, couldn’t figure out how to get on the 99 so drove Twin Cities Road to Bruceville Road, then up that through Elk Grove into South Sac, found my way to Franklin Boulevard and then into Midtown and home. Fell asleep, woke up. Coffee.
Sorry if I can’t be more profound. Some days are like that. —Jackson Griffith