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My cat is fat! His caretakers believed him when he said he was starving to death. Both hairballs seem happy to see us, no cold shoulder feline pretense. Bed is wonderful. The cunning invention of Mr. Crapper is admired, as well as the joy of two ply.
The escape was... long. The morning breakdown seemed to take forever. I missed some of it, but I did manage to get a couple of postcards off; a first. The dance of destruction was in slow motion. I had allergies and a wracking cough at this point, everyone was "burnt."
Burnt probably doesn't really mean much unless you've been there. It's not just bone tired, but brain tired. Not only is thinking hard, speaking is hard. Conversations often degenerate into little more than affirmative and negative grunts. All actions are undertaken as kind of a death march. Patience is short to none, but it's often too much effort to argue.
So, being burnt to the point of extra crispy, we were more than ready to buggout by noon. We wanted to wait to help with common camp stuff, but the drive ahead would be long and we really needed to leave soon. Feeling bad, but too burnt to feel too bad, we left a little after one.
We actually made it to the end of the site escape road a little before two. After that, it really is kind of a blur.
At some point I drove a little. I was tired, driving tired sucks, but so was everyone else. My right knee, the driving leg, was still buggered from moving set pieces around for Macbeth. The seat wouldn't shift, because it had been set for another, smaller, driver before all the stuff was loaded; I felt like I was in the cockpit of a go cart. At first I fought off drowsies, but the knee pressure began to build. Without enough room to shift the leg, in never stopped building. For a good 25 minutes I was in so much pain I could barely see; wasn't falling asleep though.
I probably only drove a little over 60 miles. When I pulled off, to get gas, I could barely speak. I was shaking and my eyes were wet. I had managed not to scream, my burnt companions seemed not to notice and merely accepted that I didn't want to drive anymore. I didn't really see the need to share the pain. I think I had a nightmare about it, damn that hurt.
My driving done, we pushed forward. I dozed, though other reports said I snored. The final stretch, after a food fiasco, consisted of me trying to speak and keep the driver engaged. My brain didn't want talk, my throat and ribs sore from coughing, it hurt to speak louder than a whisper. Still, it hurt to drive too.
We made it home. After midnight. Except for odd flashes, I'm pretty sure I just passed out.
Will blog something more useful when less burnt.
The escape was... long. The morning breakdown seemed to take forever. I missed some of it, but I did manage to get a couple of postcards off; a first. The dance of destruction was in slow motion. I had allergies and a wracking cough at this point, everyone was "burnt."
Burnt probably doesn't really mean much unless you've been there. It's not just bone tired, but brain tired. Not only is thinking hard, speaking is hard. Conversations often degenerate into little more than affirmative and negative grunts. All actions are undertaken as kind of a death march. Patience is short to none, but it's often too much effort to argue.
So, being burnt to the point of extra crispy, we were more than ready to buggout by noon. We wanted to wait to help with common camp stuff, but the drive ahead would be long and we really needed to leave soon. Feeling bad, but too burnt to feel too bad, we left a little after one.
We actually made it to the end of the site escape road a little before two. After that, it really is kind of a blur.
At some point I drove a little. I was tired, driving tired sucks, but so was everyone else. My right knee, the driving leg, was still buggered from moving set pieces around for Macbeth. The seat wouldn't shift, because it had been set for another, smaller, driver before all the stuff was loaded; I felt like I was in the cockpit of a go cart. At first I fought off drowsies, but the knee pressure began to build. Without enough room to shift the leg, in never stopped building. For a good 25 minutes I was in so much pain I could barely see; wasn't falling asleep though.
I probably only drove a little over 60 miles. When I pulled off, to get gas, I could barely speak. I was shaking and my eyes were wet. I had managed not to scream, my burnt companions seemed not to notice and merely accepted that I didn't want to drive anymore. I didn't really see the need to share the pain. I think I had a nightmare about it, damn that hurt.
My driving done, we pushed forward. I dozed, though other reports said I snored. The final stretch, after a food fiasco, consisted of me trying to speak and keep the driver engaged. My brain didn't want talk, my throat and ribs sore from coughing, it hurt to speak louder than a whisper. Still, it hurt to drive too.
We made it home. After midnight. Except for odd flashes, I'm pretty sure I just passed out.
Will blog something more useful when less burnt.