Second Post Same as the First
The summer has arrived, as it does, with its full complement of obligations and its complete disregard for the number of projects already in progress.
The accounting, as of press time, is as follows: one barn and one garage, recently reacquainted with the ground by means of a storm. The garage remains standing in the technical sense only. Structurally it is less a building than a strongly-held opinion. Cleanup has not yet begun. The Management is aware.
There is, additionally, a house in town. Purchased with ambition. Requiring, at current estimates, somewhere between considerable and heroic amounts of work. Whether it will ever be finished is a matter the author has stopped wagering on. The house has outlasted several such wagers and shows no sign of cooperating.
The Owl and the Pussy-cat went to sea
In a beautiful pea-green boat,
They took some honey, and plenty of money,
Wrapped up in a five-pound note.
The author's own home requires cleaning. The degree to which it requires cleaning is, frankly, not suitable for a family publication. Suffice to say that standards have slipped and the kitchen has been patient about it in the way that only inanimate objects can be.
Today, however, is Saturday. And on this particular Saturday — unlike the previous Saturdays, which were also going to be the day — the kitchen will be addressed. This has been announced with great confidence. The author is aware that he announces this every Saturday morning and is then intercepted by something more interesting before reaching the sink. He remains, nonetheless, cautiously optimistic.
Updates to follow. Probably.
About the Author
Nathan Alan Blankenship The First is a maker of things. He builds apps, websites, games, and physical objects with varying degrees of completion. He lives somewhere in America's Middle West with several unfinished projects and strong opinions about fonts. This is his website.
Puzzle of the Issue
I have hands that point but cannot grasp, a face but no eyes to see, and yet I am consulted at every hour. What am I?
A Clock