Message in a Bottle

If you find this post, please let my family know my final thoughts are with them, and tell my oldest son to destroy my porno collection on the home computer's hard drive.

I am now entering into the fourth day of my meteorologically-enforced exile in Quaqtaq. Feeling like a member of the Franklin Expedition, I have an overpowering sense of doom, like Fate has thrown snake eyes and isn't even bothering to cast the dice again.

I went up to the today airport with a heart full of hope of finally getting home, the weather being passable. But the cloud ceiling soon fell and all I could hear was the drone of the engines passing overhead somewhere in the clouds.

To add to my woes, I have been turfed out of my hotel room since other guests magically appeared from another flight eventually heading to a different destination. They had the reservations for today, and I had none. So off to the couch in the common room I must needs repair, and try to pass yet another lonely night away from the bosom of my family and those I hold so dear.

Topping that, the sewage tank is full, so we have eight in the building with no functioning toilet. And the guy who drives the sewage removal truck is similiarly stuck, but in another town. I had a slash outside against the hotel wall last night, but as the sky is now brightening to a depressing grey, that option's now out.

I have just consulted today's weather forecast, and the winds will pick up in the afternoon just to coincide with the arrival of the next homeward bound flight. My spirits are sinking, and I feel strangely old.

But the last nail in the coffin was from two of my readers who were too callous to even buy me a drink, drawing some perverse delight in my suffering. To you I say: fuck right off you unfeeling bastards. Revenge will come when you least suspect it.