THAT'S NOT HOW IT WORKS, LITTLE FELLA!

Woke up, twiddled a bit on the computer, went back to bed. When I got up the second time, the turkey vulture was sitting on the piled up clothes holding my wallet ("mine!, I found it!") with a note about fresh coffee in the kitchen. My apartment mate can't stand working from home, and with only the IT guys at work, and every surface there wiped and sterilized, has decided that she can get shiploads more done with nobody there, a larger screen, and more connectivity.

The fresh coffee is very nice.
But that's MY wallet.

Negotiated with the company to whom I must pay for the balance on my operation fifteen months ago, there is still an amount left on the co-pay part. They'll put the account on hold for two months; because none of us are certain how we're going to pay diddly in these times.

If I were a cigarette smoker, I would be desperate.
At ten dollars a pack in California.
Do the math.


Fortunately I have enough pipe tobacco to last me until hell freezes over. One of my readers seems to think that that is quite unfair, and I should donate some to the World Health Organization. But truth be told, they can probably get tonnes of the stuff from Zimbabwe or China, or even Brazil, seeing as more of the fine leaf is grown in those places than anywhere else. Heck, China grows more Virginia and Burley than the rest of the world.

Good thing the stuffed turkey vulture is a non-smoker.
Otherwise he'd go straight for the McClellands.
Raid the stockpile joyously.

I'd be screwed.




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