Letters to Myself

Yeah, so, I'm not dead. Just thirsty, for some reason.

There's nothing quite like being told where you live is facing an water shortage. Something about just being told that makes you quite thirsty. Like right now. The back of my throat has that slightly cloggy feeling that makes you want to swallow, your tongue tingles ever so slightly, and the insides of your cheeks start to hum a little tune of, "Hey, go get a drink."

And now I have. Stupid forbidden fruit water.

According to our illustrious gov'nor, if my general vicinity doesn't win its lawsuit to stop releasing water from the various lakes that provide us with H20, we'll run out of vital fluids by January 30.

January 30. I take another sip. Stupid psychology.

East Point, a town southwest of Atlanta but within the 285 perimeter, announced it has 37 days of water left. 37 days. After that, they'll have to try and get water from Atlanta. Which of course, has so much to spare.

Naturally, the Army Corp of Engineers doesn't see a problem, of course. They've announced that according to their calculations, we've got months and months of water available to us. Uh huh. Considering the roll of the dice here, I'm curious to see their math.

Stupid Army Corp of Engineers.

Interestingly, as much as I don't really like the idea of having to use bottled water if I want cook a box of mac&cheese, taking sponge baths, and setting up a chemical toilet in the backyard, I find myself kind of curious to see my little stretch of suburbia return to the 19th century. Perhaps we can manage a cholera epidemic just to top things off.

Stupid Imp of the Perverse.

Reading: Equal Rites, by Terry Pratchett.