These Arms Are Shotguns TBA, AT&T!

Pipe dope. PTFE tape. That's what I'm messing with.

I'm applying these materials to a propane trunk line, and I am trying to avoid any leaks. I am using great care and focus; heeding advice gleaned from several hours of study.

I'm in the basement. The lights are switched on by a motion detector. Motion detecting lights are great when you are passing through with an armload of groceries. But - what if you're trying to examine your work closely when the lights turn off? It makes you wish your arms were shotguns. You want to lay a thick blanket of blast down on everything in the room.

I'm wrapping tape delicately, and diligently counting my turns and layers. I'm smearing pipe dope carefully for a good even coat on the pipe's threads. My phone rings. Mother... fuckers. AT&T isn't trying to sell me something - they're just bragging about a service that I wouldn't pay for anyway.

"Reply 'stop' to end mktg messages," they offered as an aside.

I text "stop," reflecting that the word choice does little to capture my current sentiment. I'm slightly more cheesed, because I feel like they tricked me into doing something, instead of just waiting for them to all find hell on their own.

More than four minutes later, I get a message confirming that I will not get any more messages. I look to my arms and lament. My needs are delayed again by slow medical science.

Woes and dough; threats and bets.

I don't have as much money as I think I should. In my skool days, I learned about double-entry accounting. I passed that class, and I passed Accounting II, too. But now that I'm a real man living an adult reality, I use the "feel" method of accounting. I don't know where all my money went, but I feel like there should be more.

I've sold thousands of dollars of stuff. After fees, shipping, subscription accounts... battery banks, building materials, life... the margin is thinner than I feel like it should be. So I blew the dust off my book scanning equipment and cast my line into the water. There was a book sale close to home, and I scanned ISBNs for several hours. I didn't win any big scores, but I got scores of little wins.

I will say one more thing - an unbelievable reality: the IRS hunted me down for $18.92 from 2011. Government-owned robotic tracking machines - it is to you this warning is being issued. Read my keystrokes: brimstone will rain precipitously upon those who seek my soft-earned money. My participation in this charade is a mirage. Under this skin and smile, my bones are being whittled to knife points. Test the water. Test the water with the very tip of whichever pinky toe you like the least.

Lagoon of bullshit.

In mid-day, I took my last sip of coffee and stood up to get something done. I lost my keys. It wasn't a pretty sight. There were no pretty words. I knew I was at the bottom rung when I punched the mattress.

I heard an anecdote which I believe took place in Texas. It seems that for some reason when iron was hard to come by, people would burn down an abandoned house to harvest the nails. I was considering this approach when I found my keys in a balled up t-shirt. I wish I didn't find them. I might have done better to touch flame to this lagoon of bullshit.