Apologies to Jack

Although Capote said he didn't write, really--he typed. In any case, I'm "On the Road," as it were. I'll have to make this quick as the drive to Philadelphia looms ahead. Most of my life is stuffed into a 10 x 25 metal unit, and the necessities are stuffed to the sunroof in my car. I spent last night in a Comfort Inn after a twelve-hour day of moving and storing. I won't enumerate what hurts and what's bruised--you don't need an anatomy lesson. One spectacular gash though: I was wrapping the loft desk in bubble wrap and shrink-wrapping it, bent down and sliced my skull open on the sharp corner of a file-cabinet. Cuts on the head bleed profusely, even though the cut is not that bad. I looked like Carrie. After a clean-up and a band-aid on my bald head, I was back to work. This is the last, thank all the Golden Goddesses, you'll have to read about packing.

One bit of excitement: PT managed to squeeze himself down under the mattress and into the base of the bed--and I had to tear apart the furniture to get him out. The joys of being owned by a neurotic cat. Time for more, more coffee and to get on the road. It's a sad thing to read, I know, but you'll hear more from me later, if I don't run into a rogue eighteen-wheeler, that is. I anyone is on friendly terms with St. Christopher, put in a good word for me.