Last night on Otis Avenue

The carriage lamps shed a yellow light on a rough-looking road which seemed to be cut through bushes and low-growing things which ended in the great expanse of dark apparently spread out before and around them. A wind was rising and making a singular, wild, low, rushing sound.

“It’s—it’s not the sea, is it?” said Mary, looking round at her companion.

“No, not it,” answered Mrs. Medlock. “Nor it isn't fields nor mountains, it's just miles and miles and miles of wild land that nothing grows on but heather and gorse and broom, and nothing lives on but wild ponies and sheep.”

“I feel as if it might be the sea, if there were water on it,” said Mary. “It sounds like the sea just now.”

“That’s the wind blowing through the bushes,” Mrs. Medlock said. “It’s a wild, dreary enough place to my mind, though there’s plenty that likes it—particularly when the heather’s in bloom.”

On and on they drove through the darkness, and though the rain stopped, the wind rushed by and whistled and made strange sounds. The road went up and down, and several times the carriage passed over a little bridge beneath which water rushed very fast with a great deal of noise. Mary felt as if the drive would never come to an end and that the wide, bleak moor was a wide expanse of black ocean through which she was passing on a strip of dry land.

“I don’t like it,” she said to herself. “I don’t like it,” and she pinched her thin lips more tightly together.

Moors are wasted on the fictional!

The Tell-Tale Carburetor

The ghost of the Volvo is haunting me. It seems like every time I get on the road, I see her drab, boxy body idling at a stoplight, chugging slowly but steadily—so steadily!—through an intersection. She is driven by old ladies and boys in thin, pilled t-shirts. She fills me with a mix of affection and betrayal.

Even on my way to Salsa Tacos—even then!

I pulled onto the freeway behind one, totally ancient and gross, and there was a gray and white cat curled up in the rear window. Not even in a carrying case! This is the thing I meant to tell you yesterday, when I said there was a thing I meant to tell you, but couldn’t remember. I remembered! The cat was big and sleek with gray paws, chilling on the ledge where the speakers go. When the Volvo rounded the curve of the on-ramp, the cat pitched forward and dug its claws into the back seat to keep from flying through the air. And I mean, honestly, there is no need for such gymnastics: the Volvo, when properly cared for, ought to turn on a dime.

The driver was a Mexican woman who was so small she had to crane her neck to see over the steering wheel. There was a pile of stuff, something like old stereo equipment, in the passenger’s seat.

I’m not sure what any of this means, but I think it has something to do with me not being crazed enough to own that kind of car. Thoughts?

I anxiously await a picture of you dressed as a nerd, and am curious to hear how the rubber chicken was received. In light of my not having a Facebook, post soon!

Weekdazed,

Ash

Smoke Alarm Cartels

The smoke alarm's battery is low and I do not have a ladder.  I have pretty much tuned it out at this point. It is my theory that the smoke alarm companies and the battery companies collaborate to beep earlier than necessary so to stimulate battery sales.  I refuse to buy in to their scheme.

I met another person that tucks their socks into their pants.

Please get back on Facebook.  Ignoring the social media movement is ill advised, according to Ryan Howard.

Warm regards,
Sara