|Gus, "Raspberry lips!"|
|Rheya, "I'm really getting partied out here, you know."|
|Charlie, "It's all stuck in my mouf - what of it!?"|
Good Evening, Everybun!
By looking outside here, in the Tampa Bay area, you would never know there's a Category 4 monstrosity spinning the Gulf, making landfall near New Orleans. We have hardly any breeze, and the skies have only a few clouds, looking like the vanilla, fair-weather cumulus.
Trying to pivot from that to anything else makes this peace and quiet feel even more surreal. The "relief" and gratitude that "it's not our turn to run" is tenuous. My hoomin went through some "what-if" scenarios as if it was our turn to run. Put us all in one basket or two? What about food and water? Pee bin bedding, pads? Pack one x-pen or two?
The only good news in this death sim is that my hoomins wouldn't have to come back here because of the tar pits. We could stay away for however long we had to.
And you know what? I wanted to pontificate about art and arting.
Good Night, and Good Luck!