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Thursday, January 7, 2010


I feel like Gogol's mad diarist because today is clearly the seventh. But since I've elected to make this mundane blog a daily discipline--which incidentally explains many of its deficiencies--I will operate under the delusional premise that today is not today, but yesterday.

The past few nights I've been cloistered away in the cash-office hermitage. I'm a slow financial scribe, but so far, accurate. These things take time. Admittedly, this is not the area of my gifting; that would be mapping the mental phenomena of tree sap. Since my thumb is attached by nothing more than a glorified piece of sackcloth, I've found thumbing through copious amounts of bills to be a tedious task. By the end of the evening, my hands are so black you'd think I'd traded my profession for that of a chimney sweep, and that I'd emerged from a furnace and not a cash room.

Snow has been promised today, which means that every sensible Georgian will be on the hunt for those two most perishable of items: bread and milk. If a true and impending cataclysm ever makes its way to this state, the natives will subsist on nothing but mold and cottage cheese and probably mutate into some inconceivable abomination of nature.

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