Surpisingly, we find ourselves with a bit of direction this week, which bodes well for folks stopping by, asking us how to get to this place or another.
However, I wouldn't be surprised in the least if we were just kidding about the whole direction thing in an attempt to drudge up something new, something worth drudging all the way up, not like that old pair of boots people are always finding when the dredge the bottom of rivers, the direct result of which is the "drudged-up stuff," but something worthwhile, like the thing those people dredging rivers were attempting to drudge up, but failed when the pair of boots, or, in the sadder cases, only one boot manages to surface.
Either way, boot or no boot, things are being drudged up, possibly like we've done already, possibly not, possibly like we had thought we had already showed you, but luckily were just imagining it. And things, imagining lots and lots of things.
story:
"I do happen to have, in fact, an answering machine."
They were sitting cross-legged on the floor. Or, rather, on a very nice shag carpet on the floor. It was orange.
Neither of the people were. Orange, that is.
And they were talking about communication, which is fitting.
She (yes, these stories always seem to be about a woman and a man, yeah yeah yeah, and they always seem to flutter between spelling stories "storeys" and "stories," too) also had a good feeling about the shirt he happened to be wearing, which was, granted, nothing special, I happen to have one much like it, myself, not that her good feelings were in question, nor was my owning a shirt like his in question, either.
She was just there, liking his shirt, but disliking his apparent disbelief in the verity of information the answering machine held. However, the like of his shirt and dislike of his abominable habit of never returning phone calls, quite possibly through sheer stupidity, instead of the more popular reason that he may just not have wanted to talk to her, was winning.
Before, alas, she was to come around wholeheartedly, and he sat there, still pouting at being accused of being some sort of insensitive something, the aliens burst in. And that ruined everything.
disclaimer:
to be continued... oh no, not again!
Yer Weekly Horoscopes. one year but one week of 'em.