Of grout fingernails

Went back to the wombishness for the past few days and between gorge, microbrew, and sale bourbon I am a revamped bufoon. I did find that my whiskers have evolved so that fewer than three blades are of no use. Wha' the hell do they put on the "aloe" strip anywho? Some nourishing agent, I know that. We can never go back.

This week has been/seems to will be still a patch of obscene late-season downpour whilst my beloved boondox bygone abode is already withering in snowmobile baiting flurries. My windowshopping nostalgia for assorted extreme outerwear gives me anxiety pangs like you'd wonder how long 'til I'm checking Ski-Doo jackets on the outskirts of East Wash w/ "a plug in". No, it is goose down I crave, puffy things and odd acronyms.

And yet for all the puff I want to wrap, I can only stand to hear shards and gritt thwobs... ol' Pan Sonic and drooling at Boomkat's promise of DMZ restocks and hoo jeez what the fuck season we got upon us...?