Boom Boom Makes the Boner Feel Good: The Motto of the American Male

A pox upon the American love of pyrotechnics. Four days after the 4th, and the chucklefucks across the lake are still setting off fireworks late at night. As a spastic who startles at sudden loud noises, this is a miserable state of affairs, but trying to wrest fireworks of dubious legality from the clutches of men and boys clearly using them as proxies for their sad and wilted pricks, untouched for years and coated in a fine layer of dust and Vaseline, is an exercise in bitter futility, and so I can only hope they run out soon.

The irksome nuisance of other people aside, life proceeds apace. I'm slowly getting our ducks in a row for our upcoming trip. I've contacted the bean counter about finances, and Roomie is tasked with getting the car serviced. We still need to do laundry(have needed to for an embarrassing length of time, but Roomie HATES the laundromat, and I can't force him), and I need to get my annual haircut. But that will come. Tonight, there is only winding down for bed.

And so help me, if they're still blasting away after midnight, I'm going to fantasize about calling the cops.