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Back to the gorge

Last night, Marta, Laurel and I somehow got it in our fool heads that we would jointly compose an email to Bryan. The plan was to each write a paragraph, each person being blind to the other two’s creation, and then sign our names in the exact wrong order. Restraining Laurel from the keyboard while I moved my block of words off the top of the screen was no mean feat; I clamped a hand tightly over her eyes while Marta held her wrists. All the while Laurel squirmed and bucked like a cat getting a bath. She wanted that keyboard, and she wanted it bad. “Can I type yet? Can I type yet” she’d ask breathlessly, breaking free of Marta’s grasp and hammering the keys. Of course then I’d have to repair the damage and reposition the cursor, and by the time I got it ready for her again she’d succeeded in liberating herself and fouling up my careful preparations. I wanted to cc: a copy to myself and both of them, but they were having none of that. I’m filled with seething curiosity over what they wrote, so hopefully I can convince Bryan to forward it to me. I can only imagine the look on his face when he transitions from my paragraph to Laurel’s.

Erin is in town again, and she bought me a Dave Matthews ticket for tomorrow night. If Marta won’t loan me her Golf then Erin’s renting a car, but either way we’ll be rocking out old-school above the Columbia tomorrow night. Wish me luck.

Posted in Musings.

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