two words, one syllabe, both end in K. Go!

Pink Floyd, Cymbaline, is playing on Radio Paradise.



I knew who Pink Floyd was in third grade. Maybe before, certainly before, but that's the first time I remember. I remember because my dad had all these tapes he'd made. He kept them in our living room. In cases. He'd made them while living in Germany, I think. From records, I'd guess.



I stole one, took it to school with my tape recorder, and at recess my friends I, we recorded all kinds of things. I didn't know it was so important till later, when my mom told me what I'd done. I'd taped over one of my dad's Pink Floyd tapes from Germany.



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We have an inspection on Saturday for the home we're buying in Alexandria. Well, maybe. Maybe because we have to have a good inspection first. And then, we'll close and buy it. A stone cottage with two stories, three bedrooms and an actual (not kidding here) white picket fence.



Have you ever felt so freaking lucky that you look around and wonder who plopped you here? Like maybe someone picked you up, whipped you around, and placed you miraculously into this beautiful place where maybe you don't even deserve to be?



That's how I feel. Amazingly, surprisingly, freakishly lucky and happy.