Oh!, my concerns, they plot and plan clamor.

When a task demands attention, I take my time. I glance askance and yawn as life's concerns convene in the corner. Asleep at my wheel, the concerns are wont to plot and plan clamor.

Increasingly bored and numerous, one of the concerns will eventually reach a boil. The result is a shouting match of many voices; one of them the loudest.

WE HAVE DEAD BATTERIES ,,FUCK! 

First, I will lament that I am alone in the world. The deep cycle battery gods have forsaken me, like the rafter-cutting gods of before. I have nobody to up and read a book and trouble shoot the shit in my stead. Grudgingly, I use the energy of anxious frustration to propel me forth.

My feet are heavy bags of sand. My thin arms dangle indecisively from their sockets.

I would fall asleep standing if not for incessant prodding anger; flames fanned by the mere concept and existence of variables unknown...

DID I KILL THE HOUSE BATTERIES?

>>> How Ta Fix Yr F'kn Badderies, Kid: <<<
Step One: Check the voltage. 10.2 volts? Dead, dead, dead.
Second Step: Plug in the three-stage charger: the juice from the alternator was not enough.
Step Three: Wonder why I don't have a fucking extension cord in the fucking van.
Step Four Loko: Put down the Bud Ices, and go to Home Depot.
Step Five: With the batteries charging, ride bicycles all over New Orleans with Ian. Begin to remember that life is alright. 
Step Six: Renew vow to explore stoicism. 

End Note: The batteries are completely fine.