Your leaking thatched hut during the restoration of a pre-Enlightenment state.

 

Hello, my name is Judas Gutenberg and this is my blaag (pronounced as you would the vomit noise "hyroop-bleuach").


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March 2015
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Like my brownhouse:
   dead tree bummer
Thursday, March 26 2015
This morning I refilled my cup of tea from last night, adding a fresh bag of green tea. The cup still had the remnants of the loose cinnamon orange tea I'd had before bed last night. (I just pinch some, throw it in the cup, and add hot water, straining it with my teeth as I drink.) As I drank, I chomped down on a occasional rehydrated cubes of orange peel, which are especially good after they plump fully. But then I bit down on a weird spice with a strangely-sickening chemical flavor, and I soon realized it wasn't a spice at all. It wasn't even vegetative. It was a stink bug, perhaps even one that had been alive. It was easier than expected to rinse that horrible flavor from my mouth, but the memory of it lingered for awhile, amplifying the unpleasant feelings of a mild hangover from last night's excess.
Earlier this week, the weather forecast for today had temperatures rising to 60 degrees Fahrenheit, which would have been only the second time we'd had such a day since early January. But the forecast was wrong and temperatures never rose out of the upper 40s. It was also cloudy and rainy, and I was forced to run the woodstove to maintain the habitability of the house.
Despite the rain, I went down to the White Pine forest growing on our septic field and cut down a pine that had died, because it had been bumming Gretchen out every time she raised the blinds in the morning. I found that the tree contained two bird nests. They wouldn't have been active nests at this time of year, and it's unlikely even a bird of early springtime (say, a Cardinal or a Blue Jay) would choose a dead tree to build a nest in. As always with surplus White Pines from the septic field, I disposed of this dead one immediately north of the greenhouse.


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