Two Week Tempest

So it's already been almost two weeks since I left the comfort of my home -- my home being the massage chair in the Tijuana airport -- and am attempting to send this blog post from the comfort of my pool, ignoring the wild cats rustling in the bushes, the fireworks/gunshots going off in the distance, and my raging need to close my eyes and sleep off this amazingly busy day.

(Three hour interlude in which much good is accomplished, including Bronnie and I rigging up a mosquito net and laughing hysterically at each other's accents. Hysterical laughter is not uncommon, including yesterday in which I tried to weigh Bronnie by wrapping her in a sheet and trying to hoist her up with my luggage scale...

It didn't work.)

The raging need to close my eyes has won tonight. I certainly have a lot to share, but fear tonight is not the night. The prospect of a restful night in my impermeable polyester-nylon palace is too great.

So I say goodnight to the cats and the fireworks and my loved ones and my beloved one and the mosquitoes, who sing a melancholy song of sadness over the loss of their golden goose, their walking feast of flesh who is now hermetically sealed in her polyester-nylon palace.

They lie in wait, hoping for a toe or an elbow to escape its gauzy perimeter.

And they wait.