My personal Mercury must be retrograde
Screw it. This past week has sucked monkey balls when it comes to trying to blog. Weird problems left and right. Can’t figure it out. Looked at my horoscope and at the ephemeris, and Mercury isn’t retrograde, and my natal Merc isn’t squared or opposed or quincunxed or sesquiquadrated or whatever, so I have no idea what’s going on.
All I do know is that during the day I work, so that’s out for writing this thing. That leaves early morning or evening. And I recently moved, and haven’t gotten my merde together to get a wi-fi connexion going at home, so that leaves coffeehouses. My favorite for food and ambiance and nice people working there is Weatherstone, and it’s the closest to me, too. But the web connect there has been squinky for days. Same goes for Temple on S, and this weekend when I was washing clothes at the laundro on P, the wi-fi wasn’t happening there, either. So here I am at Naked on Q, and maybe I’ll stop in and work on the many longer posts I have in my head but don’t have time to lay down right now. I must say, though, that the ’70s music here chews the big one. Oh. Fugg. I forgot how much I hate Billy Joel.
Ah, complaints, complaints. I’m grumpy. Food, then bed. Call me if you like. —Jackson Griffith