Malls are haunted by con ghosts of commerce.
I crawled there from ocean society.
My phone instincts have only gotten worse.
But I've kicked telegram anxiety.
Old machine mouths would speak to new elf ears.
Anarchy's safely looked at online now.
Detective mice smoke their pipes on the gears.
They cannot conceive of skinning a cow.
Invest in paper worms with metal guts.
But Lawrence maintains nothing is written.
Britain may fall for want of Pizza Huts.
Valuable leaves are not for the kitten.
Yoked with electrodes is our Fred Astaire.
The uncashed cheque is remembered somewhere.
Yesterday I received this letter from my car insurance company;
Dear Insured:
A reconciliation of our outstanding refund checks reflects that a check issued to you by Wawanesa Insurance in 2006 has never been negotiated. The amount of the refund check was $8.00. We have voided the original refund check and you will find enclosed a replacement check.
Someone has a really fun job.
I rolled sixty dollars worth of quarters yesterday, and I haven't even gotten through half of my loose change. I guess what I've learned about myself this weekend is that I accumulate a lot of money in very small quantities. I often imagine capitalism as a frustrated child, constantly trying to get my attention.
Yesterday Tim ran my human rogue through Dead Mines again. Now she has all kinds of Defias gear and is wielding two swords, the Thief's Blade and the Butcher's Blade, though I kind of miss the rolling pin she had until a little while ago;
I've gotten my rogue, Galatea, to level 21 now, neglecting my level 40 warrior. I've been enjoying the Disneyland Fantasy Land quality of the human lands, while I guess the undead areas are more Haunted Mansion.
Anyway, I'd better get back to my comic . . .
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