Pretend the macaroni is Shrimp

Alright, those po-theeds (POTHEADS, get it?) at the bike shop better have something for me to ride by Friday and I don't give a shit if it's a fucking tricycle.

I've been brushin' up on my marlinspike seamanship so as to maybe create profitable furtherances of my wanderings in the form of belts, lanyards, hatbands, and fobs. I think I've got a nifty pattern down for a belt made of 550 cord that utilizes a carabiner for a buckle. The wearer could then, in an emergency, doff said belt and, with some small manipulation, the whole belt could unravel into a long, single line in whatever combination with the 'biner one might need to remedy the problem. This requires further study.

I still haven't told Linda I'm leaving. She'll be pissed, for sure. Maybe I flatter myself thinking she'll cry her eyes out at me. I'm hoping she'll be internally relieved and say, "Oh, gee. I'll miss you. be careful."
What a relief that would be. The first coupla weeks of the trip would suck knowing I, a horrid, drunken, misogynist, actually broke someone's heart. As I said, I may be flattering myself.

OK, a coupla more tallboys and I'll see if I can get sleepy. Tomorrow's a big day of crackin' the whip on the backs of some po-theeds.