When Manutes Feel Like Hours

"Stretch em out fellas..."

The Blog got a text message from Carmen around midnight. It said something about "hanging out with Mafia racing at the cross race drinking PBR". Seriously? Is that how it's going to be? Rubbing it in The Blog's face like so many custard cream pies from a piece of slapstick cine-trash? Well, after that, sleep was now a luxury and the looming spectre of insomnia grew in size and menace. His name is Gerald Anderson and he keeps me awake. Anyhoo, enough about the gh-gh-gh-ghosts that live in my house (sic. brain). So in order to pass the time, I sat around reading a book about Impulse records, cleaned up the kitchen (gave the absinthe-coated goblets a double scrubbing), practiced some fencing with a passerby (unsuspecting crackhead), inward singing, and alphabetized my spice rack. After all that, it was only 5 in the AM so with a shrug of the shoulders, a kit was donned and it was out the door for a leisurely ride around the city before riding to work.

Although humidity was around 100 percent, it was nice to have entire lanes to myself. Ahhh, so this is what's it's like to ride in a post-apocalyptic world where humanity has been wiped off the face of the earth, like "The Omega Man"!!!

Adluh building and the State Capital...
The Siren Song...