DELICATELY EXTRACTING THE HEAD OF GVILLE (so as not to leave in the poison fangs)

I know that some of you thought that we fell off the face of the earth, which is of course preposterous because we’re really closer to continuously and relentlessly falling ONTO the face of the earth. In fact, I’ll lay my cards on the table and state that Juli and I have no where near the energy—collectively or individually—to actually combat the entire gravitational force of the planet and float off like the Little Prince or something. Stop being silly and wise up to the fact that I cannot fly, hover, levitate, float, soar, take wing, etc. for any extended period of time at all, and while Juli is intentionally more vague about her powers of flight (as well as her powers of flatulence, which are mysteriously missing for the most part), I assure you that she is firmly anchored to the ground for the time being. Glad we could get that cleared up.

Those of you that were at the going away party know that it was a little odd—parents hammered and talking to strangers on copious amounts of drugs (the stranger, not the parents), neighbors wandering around and lighting off fireworks (which when I walked over to investigate, I turned around to find that my dad had my back and was ready to throw down right then and there…), various siblings and friends in tears, watching a girl slip in puke on the stairs and then fall in it at 3a.m., and overall feeling a general sense of disconnect and detachment. Weird shit, and so appropriately, here’s a few weird pics from the party (starting with the moms falling through a big ol' tupperware bin, as they are wont to do):






Those of you that weren’t there can be comforted to know that you only missed out on a bit of strangeness. You are, however, expected to make yourself available to the Pacific NW that much sooner, so there. Your life’s not all sunshine and rainbows.

After the weekend debauchery we gave away the last of our furniture and then packed, and none of you (outside of Matt and Bryan) helped. Of course, that’s what we get for packing on a Tuesday afternoon to get a break on the price of relo cubes (that’s what big fucking boxes full of your belongings alongings with some blood and sweat are called in the biz):



Wasn’t too bad, actually. U-Pack is fairly convenient, and is about as much as it would have cost to rent a U-Haul and put overpriced black gold into its gaping maw every 100 miles or so.

Apparently we didn’t get enough weirdness at the party, so someone conjured the bright idea of going to Common Grounds one last time. Appropriately, shit got weird: