177th day sober. Up at 3.
Last night I did my about-an-hour of practice. I feel if I consistently practice at least an hour a day, after a year I might really have something to show for it. I actually feel that after a year's diligent practice at an hour or more per day, I might have the same capability to produce music that people find at least somewhat likable, that I had after years of playing trumpet. And unlike trumpet, I should not "top out" at the G that sits on top of the staff.
I managed to get most things that were due to go out, packed and headed out at my usual time, and it was nice and dry (going to be so for at least the next week) and it was uneventful except, going up Junction Avenue, there was a female zombie with a shopping cart. As I passed, giving a wide berth by riding in the center of the road, the zombie called out to me saying things like "It's a nice afternoon" and "God bless you" and as I ignored it, said more things which I could not make out but from their tone did not sound nice at all.
That's the thing with zombies. They are convinced you owe them something where "something" probably means every bit of money you have on you, anything else with any value, your bike, your clothes, your shoes, and Oh yeah these are zombies we're talking about so of course your delicious brains.
I'll change my route leaving here for the next few days and as always, keep my eyes open for *other* zombies because the damned things are scattered all over.
I stopped by the dumpster that's by Tom's building because on Monday night they always put out packing material but there wasn't much this time and no 55-gallon bags. But there was some, and I had a large plastic bag with me so I gathered that up. Tom was home, but I think his homeless friend has moved in there because his van was there too. They're probably getting good and drunk every night and more power to 'em, I'm staying away.
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