Horace de Brassiere, espresso machine and man about town, bids you a blessed Sunday morn.

This is the face of a dog who does not know what his eldritch horror of an owner will do next, but wouldn’t say no to a good ear-rub.

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Okay, we can all relax. The raccoons did not trash the Asshole Crow Condo overnight.

And I’ve seen Carl. Unfortunately Jerry is still MIA.

…we left the Asshole Crow Condo out.

Despite my daughter (PRINCESS) anxiously inquiring whether or not a raccoon might move on in.

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Attached please find Jerry’s proof of life, taken before dusk but after the CORPSE-FENCE INCIDENT. (Jerry could reach the top of the table but was unable to properly fly.)

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So here I am on a Thursday, writing more SquirrelTerror.

It’s… kind of good to be back?

I am on my last nerve and a lot of coffee this morning, so fair warning: Don’t fucking test me on this one.

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(This warning brought to you by Not All Men But Definitely That Fucking Guy.)

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The post-sluice romp has begun. House reeks of even more wet dog. Towels are everywhere.

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In which I talk about my best books, being disposable, and how maybe it isn’t all hopeless bullshit.

Someone loves me. I don’t have a Keurig machine, but I’ll make do.

Who’s enjoying a well-earned chew after a hard run and obedience training?

This guy.

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Ragged Feathers

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