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the fine art of relaxing

I am so easily amused, it ain't even funny. My previous week on vacation is case in point. The original dream was to travel to Virginia to visit my brother and sis-in-law to bask in the glory that is full blown autumn in the mountains. Plan B was to visit Phyllis in South Carolina. Plan C was to drive to Memphis to the Southern Festival of Books at the end of the week after resting up a bit.

Plan Poopie, the real thing, turned into a piddle-fest. I slept ten hours a day with the cats and dogs. BabyGirl brought me flowers on day one and they're still just as fresh as when she whipped 'em out from behind her back with a big grin. Went out to dinner with Redneck Friend and had a sleepover at YaYa's when she came home from Florida. Went through shit stuff in the attic and pitched a lot of it out the window to burn when the pyro mood strikes me. Long story short, I did whatever the heck I felt like doing whenever I felt like it. There was very little money and even less of an agenda. Pure heaven.

I've never quite understood that thing about people who keep showing up for the day job when they win the lottery or those folks who get depressed when they retire. Sure, I'd go back to visit but it wouldn't hurt my feelings a bit to be an ex-employee of the sawmill. Maybe that's because it's my turn for a break that lasts longer than 15 minutes or a three day weekend.

Come to Poopie, Sugardaddy.
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