The thin silver sliver of moon hangs delicately in the west above the trees, the Tigers are winning again, I am well fed, and life is good. I have taken my pills and cleaned the kitchen, and am listening to both Keith Green and someone nearby firing repeatedly from what sounds like a shotgun - way too close to our little community of law-abiding tax-paying trailer park citizens. Protect us, Lord.
I whipped the weeds and trimmed and edged with my little Black and Decker, then cut the grass at three different levels earlier. My back is tight.
Note to self re pickles: more dill, more garlic, more hot pepper flakes, boil the brine.
Why does Swiss cheese have holes in it?
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