Day of the Dead

The Day of the Dead started off in a horribly appropriate way: See-double-u's magnificent cat, Zoey, was hit by a car sometime in the night. It looks like she left instantly.
Goodbye Zoey, you had it good and now its even better.

See-double-you drove me to the airport and I flew to Hotlanta for the Carnival of the Dead. For the airport I dressed as The Financier because I get kicks out of the way people treat me when I look good. Putty in my hands. Probably why religions require such elaborate costumementation. Arriving at the (literally) busiest airport in the world I begin to wonder if Sleg is going to continue the tradition of airport Mindnappings that we began upon El Capitan (but that's quite another story and will need to be written and then written off on by El Capitan him's elf and maybe even the Spatial Galactician before it can be posted here) by whisking me off the baggage claim curb into oblivion. But no Mindnapping today. On the ride to the dump, uh, no not the dump...to the A-hole I explain to him how my costume of the businessish attire, plus wearing the Mindfold, will dress me as Wall Street. We toss around the idea of him being The Bailout by dressing in upscale all-black attire, but in reality that only happened in our heads because it was too much to explain (and he put this awesome veil-type mask on). We had to leave N at home because she was sick. I gave her some medicine.
Sleg and I fell right back into tradition and laptopped the Glenwood for their awesome selection of beer; our favorite of the night being named Heavy Seas: Small Craft Warning. Its like a Stellas Artois for your pyrate ship. That, we later realized (for one never knows when one is in the midst of Shark Summoning) was our Shark Summoning. Once you see the fins you've gotta either swim for your life (ha, best of luck) or grab onto the fin. We rode shark toward the Carnival of the Dead in some thick style that had been dredged from our pasts and tattooed across the thick breathing leather of these monsters.
At the door we were stamped with skulls and then woah. I will not divulge the inner occurrences of this particular party because there are no words to express it to ones who were not present and there's a reason it was done inside a building and not in public. Just know that if Sara Ashes throws a party, for chrissake, GO!
The next morning we found a Shark Rider's sigil on the side of the truck. It was dashed across the door and became clear when I wiped the top layer away that, indeed, the inhabitants of this truck had Rode Shark last night.
But that was long after this. I woke up on the triplicate of yoga mats that have become my Sleghome. The overcoat I had wrapped my's elf in was spotted with candlewax. But I had lit no candles. The pain started before I even woke, it actually woke me as it were. There is only one way, I have learned, to deal with such pain. Head on. So I did headstands. And jumping jacks. And dry heaves. And tried to meditate. And dry heaves. And had them hit me repeatedly in the skull with a tube of paper. And running in place. And ginger tea. And headstands and more headstands. And then when the landlord's brother came over I did a headstand to confuse him. It worked. I can do mad headstands when I am needing to summon the deepest of energies to combat the tricksy toxins that I have penchants for.