Or is it writing bearly? I am wearing my pants, afterall. It’s chilly.

First point of order, I’m keeping the shit title below as a living memorial to my own idiocy. Pretty sure it’s only with a Boston accent and my retarded brain that “traitor” and “trader” are interchangeable.

Now that the move is over, and we are settling in, I’m getting antsy. Either I sit my lazy fucking ass down and write the best fucking book that I am capable of writing. (Which translates to something slightly more interesting than grocery list and somewhat more coherent than the letters from Zodiac.)

Or, I gotta start performing again. Honestly don’t miss the sitting around listening to shit comics while nursing a lite beer. Life is short.

The worst part of moving so far is the spotlight on an essential incompatibility in the household. M. does not share my vision that the best reason to live in the village center is to be able to drink more. Wine, more wine and a pleasant stroll down the boulevard, I say.

Tomorrow, on said boulevard, I might have to whip out the camera capturing photographic evidence of something I’m thinking is behind maybe alien sightings in rarity. The town to which we done move is bizarrely wealthy and comfortable. People don’t lock their bikes. There appear to be three, polite, comfortably dressed homeless guys who move around different corners in a mysterious orbit of motion. A co-worker calls it Stepford.

In this town, telephone poles and open walls might have handmade signs, as everywhere else. I saw a cute drawing by a kid looking to walk dogs in the mornings and afternoons for money.

On a wall we passed, my eye caught a sign for used transportation in gem mint ten condition, $15,000 or best offer. A fine looking horsey, apparently perfect for dressage and other rich girl pasttimes.