Flavigula

Here lies Martes Flavigula, eternally beneath the splintered earth.


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Wed, 06 Oct, 2004 10.00 UTC

I really don’t update this thing very often, do I?

Well, I can expound on today’s plan, however. I shall go home, get drunk and play nethack until I pass out. When I awaken, I shall prepare for my trip to České Budějovice and figure out when I can possibly go visit Maja in Munich. Perhaps the following weekend? Women are very good at making me feel guilty.

Music: Peter Blegvad


Commentaries:

Jayson:

Nethack… so did you win?

Me:

No, I gave up after a while from frustration and watched a film (21 Grams) instead.

Acy:

Smoke pot instead. If you smoke enough, you’ll still pass out, but you won’t be destroying your liver. Your lungs won’t like you so much, though. However, I imagine your lungs can handle the abuse a little better at this point.

Jayson:

Just make pot brownies then. It will take a little longer to start but you can really get messed up and have a hard time being certain of the doesage until it’s too late. Your liver and lungs will thank you.

Tony:

Or heroin! Fast-acting, provides hours of entertainment.

Acy:

Yeah, but it gives the brownies a nasty bitter flavor and makes you unbelievable constipated.

Me:

Do you prefer constipation or prujem, Aceman?

Acy:

The dosage is really not that hard to titrate. Just make them really fucking strong and start out with a little tiny brownie. Work up from there.

Me:

I am uncertain why you would think that I would not be alive, my dear Aceman. I can get pot, if needed, from my friends in Kacerov, but I don’t really like the way it makes me feel, especially if I am alone. Paranoia. Did I ever tell you the story about when I had to tie myself to my bed when I was living in Holland so I wouldn’t jump out of the window? Too much marijuana. Hmmm…. I guess I understand why you may think that I would not be alive.

Maja is a girl with whom Loyal talked on the phone four years ago. I remember very clearly what he told me when she handed me back my mobile: “Dude, I can’t believe it. She’s 18!” If anyone wants to call me next weekend, you may be able to talk to her, as well.

Along with martens, goulish goats and the rippling fen -
these writings 1993-2023 by Bob Murry Shelton are licensed under CC BY-NC-SA 4.0

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