A seven more pointed to
Dejiggered on January 18, 2026.
In seven days, seven point four hundred comes. My IT Morlocks tell me it’ll be glorious. Seven in seven. More pointed to the onerous fact that my filesystem had become dejiggered last week—something about an infestation of silicon lice—but I would leave it to them to fix that. Hopefully they wouldn’t eat me or Becasue in the process.
In six days, the day before seven point four hundred comes. That day is Saturday, or as we call it ’round these parts, Slatternday. I am wholly unsure if that matters at the moment. But I thought I would put it out there. (And it’s out there, man!)
Nurdlebutt meowed plaintively when I finished that sentence, got up, and flushed. Then I sat down again but this time refused to flush.
I slammed the Dumble Door shut this morning, with a resounding thud! that shook the rafters and rattled the chandeliers. (I have chandeliers, you know. Fourteen of them!) My soft, squishy, big little redheaded huzzey-muffet lent me a pair of her sandals—she has thousands!—to use as a wedge to jam the door shut. It worked. No more dumbling about now. No more gorgothine monsters from a parallel universe invading this one and trying to tear my face off.
My neighbor nine doors down (and to the left) thinks I’m going insane. But I think I’m just going sane. Becasue thinks I’m going inane. So which is it? Huh, huh? Which is it, pointy!? Where’s your fez now!??!