For no particular reason, really.
I just enjoy wood stoves a lot.
And storing the wood that goes in them.
The junks.
I stay for the junks.
Though my mother has always insisted that she despises laundry, I can't prevent her from doing mine.
I do know that she enjoys doing laundry more than Jeff Patey's comedy.
Because she told me so.
When I stay out here I feel like maybe I should bother being successful.
Because opening a fridge to find it full of food is rather novel.
Too many condiments to know what to do with.
Drizzling the honey mustard down my naked thighs.
That's what I could be doing.
But being successful just seems appealing from the outside.
Honey mustard is a real bastard to wash out.
My grandmother could double as a javelin, if you need one.
She's the frailest person I'm related to.
She fell recently.
But don't worry; they got her back up again.
Like any reasonable drunk, she has tiffs with gravity from time to time.
Vertical spats, as I call them.
As of now.
She didn't break anything.
Because her bones are made of something industrial.
Sort of like Wolverine, I suppose.
In fact, she sort of looks like him.
I'll see if I can dig up a picture*.
I'm going to return to St. John's soon enough.
Wood stove or no.
Bay Roberts has no women.
Well, none who share my interests. That's for sure.
But it will be a tough transition.
I'll have to finish my homework on my own again.
*I tried to find a picture of someone in a Wolverine costume and then claim it was a photo of Nan.
Har har.
But I found this photo before finding that photo, and I think this one's just as good.
This post is dedicated to that kid.
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