This weekend has not gone at all according to plan.
Not at all, not at all.
This weekend, in fact, was just like skeet shooting where My Plans were played by clay pigeons, neatly queued and eager to fly, and the Weekend was played by a sharp-shooter named Bud with a quick and accurate trigger finger.
Bud just kept yelling, “PULL!” and picking off my plans one by helpless, pitiful one.
What I’m saying is, I will write more. Very, very soon. But Bud had a problem giving me time this weekend, and, dude, I’m telling you, Bud is scary and I was not willing to cross him.
The good news is the weekend doesn’t last forever, and I just saw Bud packing up his cooler and readying his rifle for storage.
As for my clay pigeons? They don’t care that they’re fragile. They don’t care that they have an abysmal track record. They’re tenacious, y’all, and they insist that I keep letting them line up to fly.