I'll miss you most of all, bear poop

In eleven hours I'll be on a plane bound for Canada. I'm sorry to leave Ashland, but I've been here long enough and it's time. I got a lot done, though I'd have preferred to get even more done.
Replace "Canada" with "the afterlife" and "Ashland" with "Earth", and that paragraph gets really creepy and sad. And weird: who gets on a plane knowing that the destination is the afterlife? Wow, I really hope I don't die on the plane. That would really suck. For you, I mean. I'd just be dead, but you'd have to go on, and you'd have to wait for my bank account to be empty so that my webhost's automatic PayPal withdrawals would finally be denied and this site would go down. But that wouldn't happen for years. My creepily prescient elegiac epitaph would hauntingly remain, reminding you of this bright candle that was snuffed out before, during, or past its time, depending on your opinion of me.

Can you tell I hate flying? 'Tis true!

I need a car. I should drive eveywhere. It'd take longer, and it's statistically more dangerous, but holy fuck do I not enjoy flying. Why, I hate it so much that I'm unable to resist vulgarities like "holy fuck" when writing about flying!

Plus side of flying: more time spent with Wigfield. Line of the day from that book: "Quitters never win and neither do losers, and you people are both."