and whether pigs have wings
I've rolled directly from one commercial to another. I don't mind the short order at all - every step closer to the bike feels good, though it feels odd to be juggling a pair of huge car jobs like they don't mean a thang. Which they don't, really, in the big scheme.
I'm working in a very interesting place this time. It's a meticulously scrubbed cavern of concrete and glass that looks like it's been infected with a Dr. Seuss virus - fifteen-foot palm trees the size of a thumb that come regularly up through the eat-offable floor, and a series of birchy treetrunks around the lunch table that soar twenty feet to the ceiling, only to end in...tiny busts. Of luminaries. Tiny busts of luminaries. And a tiny, working television at the top of one.
Kombucha feels amazing. Amazing. At Bear's excellent suggestion, I've been subbing it out for coffee whenever I crave the latter, and I'm so pleased with the result - it's like tastebud yoga, and it gives me the tingles from head to toe (like I've replaced my blood with race gas.)
I was driving to work with a bottle this morning (I'm on the westside this week, so it's a solid hour on the road), marveling at the sensation this stuff causes. It's almost as though I can feel it healing every part of me that bears healing - everything zings. Plus, it tastes...well, good. Really, really interesting and really, really good - once you get past the fireworks the first sip tends to cause.