In the morning it was Monday, so we called the owner of the lots, multiple adjacent ones as it turned out, about the prices and all that.

We drove back over and walked them again; picked out one–maybe a second besides (a major factor in the impending brainlock). When we informally committed by text message, he offered to help by carrying the maybe. Motivated seller, as they say. This was thrilling. We got the potato, egg, and green chili burritos from the drive-through to celebrate and headed north in high spirits.

As I write this eighty hours have passed since that joyous moment and I haven’t done a god damn thing about it, except dream copiously and obsessively about how the path to my heart’s desire might end up sucking–oh the dishes are all washed; the laundry is folded to hell.

As I write this the girl cat is literally puking, which is quite rare, and metaphorically charged.

I’m grateful to be able to talk about it though, at least, finally.

To tell you with precision how I’m broken.

I can’t be fixed back like new, but the telling is the sound of the duct tape skkrritching off the roll.

***

I’d like you to meet Abby Martin. Formal introductions to follow.