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Raised by Wolves

Gaki: writing myself Real

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dark epiphany

Thank sweet Jeebus.

My outpost here in El Pueblo de las Vegas has a broadband connection, from which a lowly ronin such as myself can communicate with you during this two-week sojourn commanded by my liege.

Heat. "It's pleasant!" the Hertz rentacar lady chirruped. "80's and 90's!"

At night??? It feels like a sauna here. I can't think at this temperature. I may dissolve.

I'm not a huge fan of most of the attractions Vegas has to offer, which are either A) touristy, or B) will get me into trouble, from which I am never far. Maybe Cirque du Soleil, over the weekend or something? We'll see.

But mainly when I'm not in the office I will be here drinking vodka martinis, writing, and bellowing at the walls. This is actually a good time for me to take a trip, though it be to hell. I have a lot of stuff in my easily-distracted little cranium to ponder. Now, I go to hunt down food. I'll be back. And hey, if you're so inclined, drop me an email? Especially people I haven't heard from in a long time. I'm not on my home machine, so I can't sift through my past emails and find out who you might be, but you're out there.

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Go see the dolphins. :)

Dolphins? Who the hell brought dolphins out into the desert, for pity's sake??!? That just ain't right...

ain't you never been there in august?

80s and 90s is a goddam miracle.

I have, actually. Any bitching I do is merely a testament to the fact that I'm a total pussy about hot weather now. I keep this apartment refrigerated to a degree that would freeze any of my Southern Californian friends solid. Like giant human Otter Pops of disbelief they'd sit, watching bad cable with me, and occasionally cooling off my drinks.

I could really use an Alexander the Grape right now. Damn.

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