I had a perfectly nice day yesterday, riding the bus around the city, walking up one thousand steps to the top of Mt. Tabor to see the view, dodging a semi-solid rainstorm downtown to catch the bus, lugging my camera all over the city and not gettting a decent shot to show for it. That was the good part, and I enjoyed it immensely. (Really, I did.) I also had a pretty nice time at work, despite a co-worker who treated me like a ten-year old ignoramus. It was the drive home this morning in rush hour traffic that so colored the preceding narrative. Can you call it a drive when you don't go anywhere? Can you call it the freeway when all you're free to do is look at the bumper of the car in front of you? That's what I call parking on the parkway, making sense of a nonsensical word. My natural impatience causes me to take the first exit in those circumstances and drive in circles on the roads noone else is using before finding another crowded road to wait on. Well, that's enough of my griping for now. That's temporary sleep deprivation talking. My apologies, dear readers.
Dispatch from Portland's March for Our Lives
1 hour ago