Thursday night and Friday morning, I couldn’t sleep. It’s tantalizing to propose the affliction of a severe case of insomnia upon my person. But, the veracity of such a proposition could be crushed in a similar fashion to a snail’s shell. The truth of the situation is gooey and invertebrate. Procrastination was the word of the week and reaping what you sow was the event of the night. Several assignments and blurring montage of an hour hand rotating around the face of an analogue clock later, any sleep deprived character in our academically macabre tragedy could firmly believe everything had been brought to a corrected state of equilibrium. However, an inversely blessed individual would quickly ascertain the precarious state of affairs. Irregardless, several hours of sleep were enjoyed. A missed quiz later, the existing enjoyment was poisoned.
Fortunately, a second quiz and an impressive scholastic performance left mental energies, and the overall mood of the afternoon unmolested and enjoyable. This selfsame afternoon was intended to be filled with the uneventful, and often omitted, transit through the Wheatfield Corridor, on the Evergreen Belt, and finally down into the Emerald City. Intentions are only anticipated outcomes, and are rarely expressed in a literary work in a situation where they are found fulfilled. Who is this author to contradict (or dare transcribe) countless years of life experience tradition? We waited for our ride...
Enjoyment of the concave stretch of asphalt that plummets from the mountains into Seattle is regularly interrupted by abject surprise by the utter lack of ticker tape parades in the style oft dramatized by historical documentaries and commenced at the conclusion of decisive elections. If allowed a moment to reflect, the inference could be drawn (in crayon, no doubt) that the teeming metropolitan complex was not collectively filled with happiness by the return of our marvelous presences. Fortunately, this idea won’t be given a moment’s more consideration. Through the tunnels, over and under the bridges, and bumping across the surface streets the way was made to Das Haus von Michelle.
Any German, or simply astute, readers mayhap stumble upon the preceding sentence. Where was the character Michelle introduced in this narration? The issue is resolved with this nugget of wisdom: Michelle nee kung_fu_mike is our fashion consigliere. Returning to the topic, the night was well in swing and the abode was brimming with piping hot good company. tommusic, moxiediosa attended. Coincidently, I had enjoyed familiar circumstances with a super-majority of the arrivals. This is only of note as it’s far from a normal circumstance. The remainder of the evening was enjoyed in the company of alcohol and foreign nationals.
Skyscrapers are one of numerous testaments to the technology and the industriousness of modern society. Their vision seducing nature appeals, perhaps in a Freudian sense, to my psyche. Saturday afternoon, four males selected the same number of towering buildings in downtown and attempted to infiltrate their innards with the final goal of discovering themselves while perched from their tops. Two made it into the wrong building. As I vaguely worry about the web searching abilities of certain agencies, I will take the infrequent action of withholding a story. Those two males did make their way out of the wrong building and, as quickly as possible, the downtown city proper.
Excepting frequent muffled grunts of frustration from inconvenient circumstances, the weekend closed with no further action. The Robinson family celebrated Heather’s birthday with a dinner shared by our primary characters. The long drive back was scored to the soundtrack of Orbital, Linkin Park, and remixes of The Prodigy. Finally, I think I have found a measure of closure.