Good morning, Hubski. Haven't gone to bed yet. It's that time of the season.

Got hit by a car yesterday. Or more specifically, hit the brakes in time to not leave the sidewalk in front of the car barreling through like the light wasn't even there. Tagged their rear door, launched over the back deck and sprained my shoulder. Didn't break anything - got the x-rays to prove it - but the handlebars are off by 20 degrees or so. Rode the fucker home anyway. Kind of archetypal of my time in LA that I can make it dozens of miles a day but a half mile from my fucking house? Yeah, Mexican nationals try to kill me at 5am. Then think about taking off for 5 minutes. I let 'em go anyway. I have insurance and who the fuck wants to deal with the LAPD at 5am on a Tuesday?

That was after being awake for 22 hours, of course. That's the world I live in these days - 8-hour commutes followed by working 10 hours. The commute is a 30 mile drive, a 1000 mile flight, a 20 mile drive and a 15-ile bike ride and I hate the TSA so much. It's become so routine that I flew down with 4 pounds of government cheese. They pat me down every time because apparently my hair looks suspicious on the pornoscanners we supposedly retired in 2012.

I won't see home for another six weeks. By then there may be drywall up on the birth center. I get the sense that this is when most of the work gets done; when I'm not there, of course.

I really hurt. And I'm really tired. And I hate my roommates. And I know there are those here that actually like Los Angeles? But holy fuck, people. You live in a shithole. And if I could never be here again I would never be here again so hard.