Short bitches.
Status length grouse.

The eldest vaughn daughter had a namesake, Eleanor, that married a Hobbit. And we certainly have tendencies that are similar. To not want to leave our home unless dragged out on a quest.
And repetitive

I attempt to use the word Hobbitual to describe us. The cowboy minister hears punctuation. Silent.

Hob. Bitchual

I’ve eaten now so I’m started to settle down. We begin to discuss my new tattoo. I took Caxton’s drawing with extended arms on a superhero and a non descriptive number of fingers. My description of it is, to modify this long armed imaginative hero, to have a few extra arms as I nod to the  popularity of octopus graphics.
And suddenly a three eyed octopus./iron man concept has been born.

But as a realize. From my perspective of imagination often conceptual and less frequently grounded….

And research means a less powerful octopus because its trapped in an iron man shell.
It no longer has the flexibility to defend itself if it can’t slip out through the tiniest holes.

The difference between my sons drawings.
Nest. For the boy who attacks an escalator first thing in the morning with his face. And only cries when he gets water in his eye. Or risks his arm over open flame to obtain candy.

Ladder. For my cautious son who will probably attain success more than me.

Not demolishing the house of .gingerbread. because my bad teeth and my beliefs to quote atmosphere. Should not Be propigated onto the next generation.. at least not first thing in the morning.

Grandma mourns that the gingerbread house will not be destroyed for the first time in
The history of the world.

And my response is that we aren’t rejecting the sweet demolition job. But I don’t have time to alter the history of the world I just want to go go work.

And grandpa says. Maybe that is his problem. Too busy trying to make a difference and forgetting to just mindlessly punch a clock sometimes.

Maybe so. Or maybe I just learned my lesson from spending too much time advertising my art on facebook a few weeks back.

Piece in her head. About the peace in her head.. that’s the poetry about the dentist from grandma. I’m amused and still nervous about my lack of maintenance.

Howard finster style writing
Is what I remind Eleanor of in my telling of this story.
Not a fancy museum.
Is what he exhibited at, and i should follow suit.

Family comfort
Selling my art.
Midlife crisis that… is trying to steer this train in a cohesive direction.

There is a reason why we rent to these people. I don’t mean that in a bad way. Its just that we are artistically disfunctional at times.
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I had to leave this post alone for a bit. My writing had to take a back seat to the adventures of daily life.

Being stuck in a ditch in a snow storm.

Previously Seeking babysitters in a greenhouse.

Assisting architects with home improvement.
Cracked radiators.

Frozen diesel engines.

I prefer going on those adventures. But at the moment I’m pondering how to write content to sell service to the cohorts and work buddies who associate with Tan hulk and his other non offensive teammates whose super powers include board meetings and organization.

But I should return to the story that I digressed from so long ago.

As I retold my frustrations at running over a sparrow, and sitting in a fountain of fuel while I attempted to communicate with my beautiful wife….

Her father told me that, not only does God promise to care for each sparrow. But that “sometimes shit happens” .

That was the advice that I received from a learned man who is well educated and theologically astute.

Sometimes shit just happens.

It isn’t that God doesn’t care for us. But if bad things didn’t happen to good people to, then it just wouldn’t be fair.

And as Eleanor related to me as we sat in a ditch due to the white out of blowing snow.

Adventures are fun. And we wouldn’t be together if we wanted to have a boring predictable existence.

you kill it, we grill it is an outdated explanation of my art
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